Qeya River your ivy grows

her ears flatten at the sound of his voice and something visceral crawls up from her chest, scalding hot and bitter. heathen—he can hardly form the word in his mouth, and yet he has the audacity to insult without a sliver of understanding to back it. what she feels is far from fear. it is offense, anger, a learned, reflexive fury.

her lips peel back with a sharp, ugly sound. was there pride in his heart, excitement at the opportunity to talk down upon her? to impose himself as something righteous, something so pure that her people, that she is dirt beneath his feet? is there joy in it?

“you sound stupid.” the words sound much better from her own mouth. the vultures wheel overhead, offended on her behalf—or perhaps simply interested. she hopes they will make dinner of him next. her focus locks on him as he circles, that broken, mocking lanzadoii scraping wrong across her ears. wrong cadence. dirty mouth.

his shadow presses in. black fur, red eyes, old hatred dressed up as something kind. she tracks him with a stiff turn of her head, shoulders hunched, legs curled tight beneath her as if bracing for a strike. she steels whatever sense of dread that lingers into a wall of strength, should he act against her.

your mother looks for you.

disbelief flashes across her features once, twice. the first is surprised—the second is a refusal. the girl scoffs before she speaks, derisive. “does she?” he must take her for a fool. if her mother was looking, she should have come herself.

she does not know this man, only that he is rude and boarish and would sooner spit in her face than regard her with common decency, and he will get no compliance from her.