Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

Gjalla crouched low behind a curtain of frost-covered branches, her breath escaping in white puffs that vanished quickly in the crisp winter air. Her piercing gaze was fixed intently on the caribou ahead.

She was downwind, her form blending into the gloom. The taut line of her body told of hunger, focus, and patience, a predator born of the North’s unforgiving hand. Her every instinct screamed to close the distance, to feel the snap of her jaws around the life she sought. She was close now. Close enough to see the twitch of the animal’s ears, the subtle shift of its hooves in the snow. Her muscles coiled.

The sound of a body tearing through the underbrush shattered the stillness. A blur of black surged from the mist, barreling into her with crushing force. Gjalla was yanked from her focus, the weight slamming her into the frozen ground with a guttural snarl, limbs tangled with her assailants. Claws scraped across ice-bitten dirt as she writhed against the hold, her anger flaring as sharp and wild as a storm. Instinct took hold; she twisted mid-fall, claws outstretched, ready to tear into the beast.

Before she could lash out, a heavier weight pressed her down, forcing the air from her lungs. A muzzle snapped near her face, too close, too fast for her to counter. Her vision narrowed on the figure pinning her—a wolf, massive and black as pitch, with burning fern eyes that sliced through the fog like embers in the dark.

Fangs bared, she lunged upward, only for him to press her harder into the earth, a growl rumbling from his throat, low and guttural. Her paws braced against his chest to keep him back, ears flattening against her neck.

And then she caught it—the scent. Familiar, impossible to mistake—too much like them. Her struggles faltered, her snarl tapering into confusion, periwinkle eyes locking onto his with something between fury and recognition.

“You—” she snarled, her voice half a growl as her limbs twisted beneath him. “Get—get off!”

---

@Blackfell

Blackfell's weight did not ease. A towering shade of black pinning her effortlessly to the frozen ground as if she were no more than a pup beneath him; in truth, she might as well have been. Paws thick as boulders grappled with her raven fur, nails digging uncomfortably into her skin. The growl in his throat deepened, a low, resonant noise bold as a raging thunderstorm. Fern-green eyes bore into her.

His eyes jolted momentarily to the scattered caribou tracks, the creature long vanished into the emptiness of the balck forest. Bemused lips twitched into something not quite a smile—more pleased than anything to have interrupted her hunt. The sharp curve of his muzzle dipped closer, almost brushing hers, his breath warm; in any other situation, maybe a welcome warmth from the winter's bitter cold.

She couldn’t move him. He felt her paws bracing against his chest, claws digging into his fur as she tried to force him back, but her strength meant little against his sheer mass. Then, confusion. It was loud as it contorted her snarled face into something more mild, and her pretty little eyes snapped to his. Her bewildered stare spoke volumes. Blackfell gave her a smug smirk as he finally relented, moving to shove his burly form off of her, letting her back to her paws. A laugh, a chortle, fell from his thick jaws; visible as cold breath came in plumes from ice-bitten lips.

His eyes dragged over her, taking in her coiled muscles, the wild defiance in her gaze. "Last I saw, you were all silk and grace, standing behind your mother," he added with a toothy grin.

"Betrothed to my cousin, weren’t you? Pretty little thing, all wrapped up in furs." The faintest trace of something bitter crept into his tone before he crushed it beneath his pragmatism. He stops. His eyes drape her in a quiet, examining stare. As if poking and prodding at all that she had to offer. A sneer formed upon his black face.

"What happened, princess?"

Gjalla’s chest heaved as she sucked in the frozen air, eyes narrowing like knives upon his smug fucking face. He had barely stepped aside, towering over her with an arrogance that made her blood boil. Snow clung to her thick coat as she rose to her paws, shaking herself off in sharp, irritated motions. Her claws scraped against the frost-bitten earth as she steadied herself, her hackles still bristling from the encounter.

His laughter echoed, grating and sharp, like stones grinding beneath heavy paws. Silk and grace. The words hung in the frozen air, taunting, dredging up fragments of a life she had long since buried. The smirk on his muzzle lit a fire beneath her ribs, her teeth baring in silent rage as she squared herself before him.

"What happened?" she echoed bitterly, her voice dropping to a low rasp. A humorless smile curled the edges of her lips, a cruel, fleeting thing. "I woke up. That’s what happened." she growled, voice tight with restraint. Her fur bristled, but there was no denying the sting of his mockery, the subtle sneer that lurked beneath his every word. "I'm not exactly marriage material, either."

Her head dipped low, her lips pulling back to bare the sharp gleam of her fangs. “But you're one to talk, Blackfell,” she bit out, her voice low, seething. His name was a curse on her tongue, spat like venom. The remnants of his laughter clung to the air like smoke, and her gaze hardened. “wandering the woods like some aimless cur, pouncing on the first thing you come across. You seem more oaf than king.”

Blackfell's laughter tapered off, leaving only the rasp of his breath and the faint whisper of wind through the frostbitten trees. His smirk remained, unapologetic and full of teeth as he looked at her, accompanied by the arrogant tilt of his head.

“An oaf, am I?” he rumbled out, unable to hide the ill-placed humor that laced his thick speech. He took several steps towards the woman, teeth gnashing in a mischevious jest, his neck extending to shove his face into hers. He was uncaring of any consequences—he hadn't been raised on fear, and he sure as hell wasn't scared of Gjalla.

“Marriage material,” he scoffed in her face, offering her the humored jerk of his head and the lash of his thick, scarred tail. “That what you call it? Seems more like runnin' off like a wild dog.” If she was going to throw insults, Blackfell was more than willing to meet her in the middle. He was all bristling fur and ebony fur, the picture of a Crownore bastard; and by the way she looked at him, he was starting to see that was a bit of a sore spot for her. They hadn't ever spoken aside from passing glances and agonizing curtsies.

Why the hostility?

“Aye, I'm some cur. And here you are. Frostbitten and crownless, gnashing your teeth at me like some mangy stray.” he growled, spat out, leaning closer, his breath warm against her fur. “What exactly are you proving out here? That you can run far enough, long enough, to forget who you are?”

He laughed, cold, cruel, and then gave her the cold shoulder, turning on two stocky forelegs to push past her. He made sure his fur brushed hers; there was something sweet about leaving his scent on her, for her to find in the coming days. Unless she drowned herself in an icy lake. He gave her a nasty smirk over his shoulder.

Tempt the Princess' paw.

"I got to keep movin', Princess. Blackmarch won't rebuild itself."

The frost bit sharp against her skin, but Gjalla hardly felt it, her body burning with the heat of her fury. Blackfell’s words hung in the air like an open wound, festering. His smirk, his taunting laughter, the deliberate brush of his fur against hers—it all kindled the fire in her chest, stoking it into a raging inferno. She stood rigid, watching as he turned, that broad, scarred back of his an infuriating dismissal of her very being. 

Her tail lashed behind her, carving arcs into the snow, but her steps remained rooted. Her lip curled, a sneer of defiance twisting her features as she closed the distance between them. She didn’t care that he towered over her, a monolith of muscle and arrogance. She’d never been one to back down from a fight, no matter how stacked the odds.

Eyes sharp as shattered glass locked onto his fern-green flecked with gold, and the tension between them coiled tighter than a spring. “At least I’m not a dog chained to dead kings and dying dreams.” she spat, her voice low, venomous.

“As if dragging the ashes of your failure through the snow will turn them into something worth following.” She took another step, her claws scraping the frostbitten ground as her tail lashed behind her. “But I suppose that’s all you’ve ever been, isn’t it? A shadow chasing scraps of glory that were never yours to begin with.”

His smirk faltered—just for a moment, a blink, a shadow passing over his face. It was enough. Gjalla’s own lips twisted into something cruel and satisfied, a mirror of his earlier mockery. “Go on, Blackfell,” she growled, taking a single, deliberate step forward. Snow crunched beneath her paw, her silhouette stark against the bleak winter landscape. “Run back to your ruin.”

Blackfell froze mid-step, his ears flicking back as her words cut through the cold like a blade. Slowly, each step more pronounced than the last, he turned, his fern-green eyes narrowing to slits, the gold in them burning like dying embers of a forest fire. The smirk that had played across his face was gone, replaced by a steely glare, his jaw set tight.

"You talk a lot for someone who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re saying," a snarl ripped past his locked teeth, spit dribbling past his dark jowls. He went back the way he came, stepping towards her with hefty footfalls, quickly bearing down on the space between them.

His voice dropped lower, colder, each word a shard of ice driven deep. "You wanna talk about failure? What the hell do you call this? Out here, starving, clawing at frozen dirt, pretending you’re something you’re not?"

He leaned closer, his breath hot against her face. His scent swirling her in suffocating plumes, an inescapable, bitter reminder of the past they both shared.

"You ran, princess." his voice was cold now. Resolute. Final. There was no denying it. "Don’t stand here and lecture me about ruin." His lips pulled back, teeth bared in a sneer.

"At least I still know what the fuck I am."

Gjalla didn’t flinch. She refused. The weight of his words pressed against her like the suffocating chill of the frost-heavy air, but her resolve remained unmoving, her breath steady, her gaze colder than the ice beneath her paws. If his size was meant to cow her, if his snarl was meant to drive her into submission, he’d miscalculated.

Gjalla’s teeth snapped together with a sound like splintering ice, her breath curling in thick white puffs as she tilted her head, baring her fangs in a grim, humorless grin. He thought he could tower over her, drown her in his presence, but Gjalla was a creature of storms, of unyielding winters. She knew exactly what she was. It was the essence of her very being, all she was. It tempered her, carved her edges into spikes.

"You’re damn right I did. Ran from a cage disguised as security, from a future someone else decided for me." she spat, the words dripping venom, each syllable a knife. Her voice was low and bitter, a growl pulled from the depths of her chest. "But you're here, too. Tell me, what's your excuse?"

Her claws dug into the snow as she leaned forward, close enough to taste the bitterness on his breath, close enough to feel the pulse of her anger thundering in her chest. Her eyes, sharp as the cutting edge of a blade, locked onto his, daring him to look away. "I ran toward something. You? You’re still wandering in circles, sniffing after a crown that’s already turned to dust in your teeth."

Her lip curled further, a snarl pulling at her face as she took another deliberate step forward, chest nearly brushing his. Her breath hissed between her teeth as her tail lashed sharply behind her.  "Say what you like about me, Blackfell. Call me a coward. A stray. A failure." Her lips curled into a snarl, sharp as winter’s edge. "But don’t you dare stand there, dragging the rot of your dead legacy behind you, and pretend you're any better. You are as much king as I am queen."

word vomits on you

Blackfell's eyes burned like wildfire beneath the frost as her words struck him, each one a hammer blow against the fragile remains of his pride.

She was right, and that was the worst of it. Every accusation, every venomous word she spat was a truth he could not deny. His chest heaved as the rage surged, hot and consuming, choking him like smoke in his lungs.

“You don’t know shit,” Another lie. The distance between them fully vanished in a heartbeat, his massive form surging forward. His shoulder slammed into hers, driving her back into the snow with a force enough to rattle the frozen ground beneath them. His weight bore down on her, his hefty paws pinning her.

His breath came fast and harsh, curling in white plumes around them as his teeth snapped inches from her face, the sound sharp as cracking ice. “You think you’ve got me figured out?” he growled, his voice a dangerous rasp. “Think you’ve got the right to stand there and spit in my face? Like you’re not just as broken as I am.”

Hypocrite. Hypocrite.

Gjalla twisted beneath him, her claws scraping at his chest as her fangs flashed, aiming for the tender flesh of his snout. She moved fast, but so did he—jerking back just enough to turn a vicious bite into a grazing strike. Still, her teeth met their mark, slicing a sharp line across his muzzle.

“Fuck!” he barked, blood pouring in creamy rivulets from his snout to the plush of her messied chest below. His lips curled, baring the full gleam of his fangs, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed her down harder, his claws sinking into the frozen earth on either side of her. His voice broke, rough and raw, carrying the weight of a confession he’d never give willingly. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t feel it? I was there!” His breath came fast now, rattling in his chest, his muzzle so close to hers that her scent hit him like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just the wild musk of her sweat and anger—it was something deeper, something maddeningly sweet and primal that sank its claws into his senses. It crawled under his skin, wrapping around his throat and squeezing until he could barely think straight.

Blackfell growled low, a sound that trembled with something darker, something he refused to name. “I had it, Gjalla. I was so godsdamned close. And now…” His voice dropped to a hiss. He looked down at her, eyes clawing and tearing over her contorted face, ignorant to the beauty that lay beneath her glowering snarl. His breath came in pulsing gasps, the air he clawed at visible in thick plumes around his face. He frantically searched her eyes, her face.

In his anger, he wasn't able to react when she barreled him over, flipping the tide of their violent tango. His back hit the snow-trodden ground with a thud, the back of his head colliding next, leaving him staring up at the furious mother winter. "Fuck you, Gjalla."

Gjalla felt the air shift as Blackfell’s fury broke over her, like an avalanche crashing down with every word, every movement. Her fangs gleamed in the pale light as weight slammed into her, knocking her to the cold ground for a second time. Words fell from the brute's mouth like rounds of bile, each more emotional than the last.

With a feral snarl, she squirmed beneath him, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. Her claws scraped across his chest, tearing at him with a sudden surge of violence. The strike to his snout had been a warning, flesh catching on her canine until it spilled scarlet. Her claws dug into his shoulders in an attempt to leverage herself as his weight pressed down. The blood on her chest—his blood—was nothing but another scar, another mark she would wear proudly until she lapped it away.

He shoved against her in retaliation, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a violent clash, Gjalla didn't yield. No, instead, she seized the opportunity, twisting the fight in her favor. With a sudden, powerful roll, she flipped him over, her weight forcing him onto his back, head thudding against the snow. Her chest heaved as she straddled him, breath ragged, her face inches from his, the force of her glare as cold as the northern winds.

Blackfell’s curse barely registered; her ears buzzed with the sound of her blood roaring through her veins, of rage and triumph colliding in a dangerous whirlwind. Her teeth bared as she leaned down, her shadow eclipsing him like the gathering of dark clouds before a blizzard. “Fuck me?” she repeated, a growl so cold it could freeze marrow. Overgrown claws flexed into the snow beside his head. “No, Blackfell. Fuck you.”

Her voice was quiet now, dangerously so, each word carrying the weight of a tempest barely held in check. “You don’t get to bleed your grief over me and act like I haven’t bled just as much.” She hated him for the way he clawed at her composure, for the way his words and presence struck the buried parts of her she wanted to keep hidden. Hated him, but in the same breath, she understood him in a way that made her insides twist. A pity she sympathized with.

Her claws flexed against the ground, her lips trembling as the storm inside her threatened to spill over. “—and you will live. Your self-pity will get you nowhere.” she snarled, quieter now, the fire of her anger dimming into smoldering embers. “You’re the only one who’s had to suffer and start over.”

And with that, she shoved off him, her claws scraping his shoulders as she side-stepped his body. Her breath was uneven, her chest rising and falling as the adrenaline coursed through her veins, but she didn’t waver.

"Now get up." She growled, her eyes narrowing. "What are you even doing here?"

Blackfell lay there for a moment, sprawled against the snow like some felled monolith. His chest heaved, clouds of breath billowing into the frigid air as her words lingered, sharp and raw, digging in deeper than any fang or claw could. The pulse of his anger thudded like war drums in his ears, drowning out the sound of the world around him.

She’d flipped him, bested him for even a moment, and yet it wasn’t the bruises or the sting of his split muzzle that burned most—it was her voice. Her truths slashed open wounds he’d been so careful to keep buried.

He should’ve lunged at her again, should’ve knocked her back into the snow and torn the smug defiance from her face. Instead, he lay there, blinking up at the pale sky, his muzzle still damp with blood—his blood—and watched as her shadow moved away, leaving him there in his own damn mess.

His muzzle twisted into a snarl as her words lingered, gnawing at him, their truths an irritation he couldn’t shake. Self-pity will get you nowhere. It was a knife to the gut, one she’d twisted without hesitation.

And she was right. Again.

With a low, guttural sound—half growl, half exhale—Blackfell shoved himself upright, the weight of his body sinking deep into the snow beneath him. “Don’t you ever shut up?” he rasped, his voice hoarse with rage and effort. His snout curled, blood trailing in thin rivulets down to his jaw where it froze in tiny droplets.

She smelled like frost and fire, like blood and defiance, and it made his head ache, his heart pound. He hated it. Hated the way it curled inside him, unrelenting. Blackfell exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he could dislodge the mess she’d left him in. Without another word, he turned away, broad shoulders hunched. For a moment, he looked smaller than what he was, if such a thing were possible. Sunken in on himself, bitten by the rot of defeat.

He finally spoke, voice quieter than it had been. “Fuck if I know.” His nose scrunched up. “The throne was mine. All I had to do was take it.” He lifted his head again, his eyes finding hers through the space between them, unblinking, feral in their intensity. “And then I woke up here. In this godsdamned forest. Nothing left of it but dirt, snow, and my name.”