Whitebark Stream don't corner me

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— clayfall jerks back from the stream, water slinging off his chin in silver arcs, lungs gasping. he stumbles, half-tripping in the mud, pale legs shivering beneath cold and fear and exhaustion.

staring with wild emerald eyes burning from a face too gaunt, too hollow. the scent of the northman hits him next. musk and old blood. a wall of red and shadow.

his voice comes low and ragged. eyes flashing with alarm, hackles pricking immediately. alarm bells ringing in his mind that already spun with hundreds of toxic webs.

fuck off. he snaps. a feral thing pinned to a corner, legs cautiously twitching to move. to back away.