Overture Downs not my friend but i wont say no

screengrab from arcane. for @Ulfric

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The forest was cloaked in an early morning mist, the damp air filled with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The winter had withered bitterly in the months she'd parted from Velaris, thwarted by the new season. Where much of the land was washed with green and flushed with blossoms, it was caught between seasons, even as the promise of renewal hung tantalizingly on the horizon— a kind change of pace for the princess, a sliver of ease passing through her mind.

The quiet felt eternal, broken only by the occasional rustle of brush or the distant call of a bird. Gnarled branches swayed against the morning breeze as Gjalla lifted herself over the twisted trunks and sprawling roots that protruded from the patchwork of frost and mud. Wet auburn leaves flatten beneath her feet. Her breath formed small clouds of hoar, dissipating swiftly as she padded toward the treeline.

As she reached a clearing, the mist parted slightly, revealing a small, frozen stream that wound its way through the landscape. The water's surface was a mirror, reflecting the muted, gray sky and the sparse foliage. Gjalla paused at the edge, her periwinkle eyes scanning the horizon, lost in thought. The wind shifted, carrying an unfamiliar scent—pinesap and iron, mingling with the morning dew that clung to the forest. Her ears perked, head swiveling with a renewed sense of alertness. It would pain her to admit that she'd hoped for another's presence, so she let the thought rest in her head as she stared at the stranger's silhouette in the fog.

fallen maples cracked and broke from underneath the nomad’s paws, an icy breeze combing through his thick-grown coat. winter had begun to finally pass as icicles dripped into the dark soil below, wetting leaves and ferns along the woodland floor. the tormented yet prideful folk of brightreach were finally behind him, with their gilded gates of lies and sheep-clothed serpents at ulfric’s back. his services had been requested by the marquess to solve the disappearance of her lover… a male who was, notably, not her husband. a monster, she’d exclaimed, a creature had surely killed him. but, as ulfric had furthered his pursuit for answers, the monsters within brightreach were not a fantastical phenomenon.
they were noble lords and ladies, gossiping duchesses and dukes all with a secret to hide and an ax to grind against those they’d dine with during the day—pompous devilish snakes, the lot of them. now, the outstretch was before him - the path of a new place, yet it brought him no further joy. a new town, the same problem. a new problem, the same end result. ulfric’s life had become an endless spiral into the abyss’s whirlpool, a never-ending cycle that blurred the nights and days into one.
but something was out there, in the distant fog. bright blue eyes narrowed upon the blurred shadow of someone - a young woman, he’d come to realize. and she was staring right back at him, like a nightingale beauty of the moon. her blue-ish roan coat contrasted the pale scenery around them, taking space like an apparition that would disappear if he looked away.

Stale snow and dried yellow grass crunched beneath distant footfall. The fog parted around the beast’s shape, eyes narrowed pitifully against the early morning haze. A mirage of muted oaks and deep chocolate, lumbering about like an ill-mannered bear with its small, golden eyes. The scent accompanying him was foreign, unfamiliar to the northerner's nose, and a slow, creeping caution curled in her chest. Tufted ears twitch and swivel backward against the nape of her neck, a burst of white formed in the air like swirling steam as she forced a puff of breath from her mouth.

The drifting breeze billows curled fur forward, spindly curls swaying like tendrils beneath her chin. Gjalla studied his face for a long moment, from the hard lines of his cheekbones to thick brows arching over his eyes, but it sparked no recognition from description or memory.

But she suspected he wasn't from here at all. He hinted at it by the way his gait carried the weight of something far more burdensome than mere travel, restless fatigue clinging to him like a second skin. Too tired and too weary to be from lands like these. Too peaceful for the likes of him. And yet, something called to her still, threaded into the earth like invasive vines in the undergrowth, there but unseen, a feeling she could never quite place. Perhaps it was the solitude, the burden of their lives etched into their bodies, like an unspoken language they both knew too well.

Before the silence could become uncomfortable - awkward, even, her lips parted, “You look miserable,” she mused flatly once he was in range, lashing her tail.

the cerulean maiden, however, does not disappear as ulfric moves closer into the thick clouds. she isn’t armed with guardsmen, nor does she stand poised to attack when the distance is far enough. the strange woman is quiet, lips unmoving, yet something about her roars like a leopard in the snow—cold and fierce. it is her eyes, he realizes, bright as comets in the dark cloak of night.
she watches him. studies him, the way a hunter does prey. he can feel it, the way she takes in his scent—urdwood, cloves, the iron tang of old blood. he cannot blame her. he does the same.
so, maybe she is not a doted princess, but that does not mean she isn’t of noble blood. ulfric can picture her in a court of lords, speaking politics between lavish feasts and shallow pleasantries. but these are only guesses, shadows of truth formed by sight alone. they mean nothing.
when he is close enough, she speaks of his travels, of their insufferability. he stops. his silhouette catches most of the falling snow, shielding her from the cold winds.
he wonders, briefly, what she sees when she looks at him. what she makes of the scars, the weight in his stance, the coldness in his eyes. strange—he has never cared for such things, yet here he is, thinking on it. best to snuff it out now before it lingers.
"your eye is sharp," he says, voice rough with exhaustion. his gaze lowers to her, half-lidded, unreadable. his tail swings low as he exhales slow, steady. "the good folk of brightreach… not so good. but you, you would not know that."
because he has never seen anyone quite like her within that town.

Gjalla’s breath curled in the air, wisps of warmth swallowed by the cold that encased the clearing. The stranger’s voice reached her, gravelly and weary, like the crack of stones against an ancient riverbed, and it mirrored the same exhaustion etched in his frame. His presence, while unfamiliar, did not unnerve her—it was the exhaustion hanging off him like a tattered cloak that pulled at some distant, well-guarded corner of her heart. It was a comfort, to see one with pains that mirrored herself. She didn’t move, save for the flick of her tail, ears angling toward him as she drank in his words with a muted sense of intrigue.

Her lips curl into a contemptuous sneer, huffing the start of a laugh through her nostrils as she sets her gaze on the distant pearly gates. “I do. Though I've never heard of this Brightreach.” She suppresses the desire to gloat at the fact. Brightreach. A name so positive nearly promised discontent, as if it had a way of leeching the color from things. She'd had plenty experiences with kingdoms hiding beneath the guise of ivory and gold, though hollow at their heart. There was a coldness to her, a frost over the surface of her being, but even she couldn’t bring herself to be so unbearable.

“A good thing, I trust?” she pressed, her voice quieting as she took a step forward, rounding his quarter like she was sizing up her next meal, paws leaving faint imprints in the frost-dusted ground. A pity she wasn’t yet hungry. Her lips twitched slightly, not quite a smile but something close, a faint acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. Her tail flicked once behind her, sweeping a thin line in the snow.

neither, she says, with a hint of something like pride in her tone.

a small twitch at the edge of ulfric’s lip. "lucky you, then." not all are so fortunate. he is not. but the gods can always be crueler. his graying muzzle tightens, frustration slipping through—not at her, but at the memory of brightreach and all it left behind.
"a word of advice, bluejay," he mutters, voice low. "best to keep clear of those lands. leave them behind, quick as a fox’s trot. they offer nothing but deceit." though, looking at her, he can tell she already knows. maybe from his tone, the weight in his words.
bright, glass-blue eyes track the woman as she moves, stepping around him slow, measured—like a vulture circling something that hasn’t died yet. for a moment, he loses sight of her. his body shifts, following the way she walks.
curious one. asks without asking.
his tail hangs loose as he turns fully to face her again. something about her pulls, something quiet, something unsaid.
"had business. it’s done." short, clipped. noblemen are frantic when it comes to their secrets, and ulfric has no interest in speaking on matters that aren’t his to share.
then, a dry chuff. "shouldn’t a girl like you be off wandering the meadows, singing to birds, catching the eye of some brigand?"
his tone is laced with something close to humor, but sharp-edged, worn from sarcasm. he would not blame her if she took offense. wouldn’t be the first.
he exhales slow, a breath heavy from travel, turning white in the cold air. his short ears twitch, shifting only to follow the sound of her steps, her voice.

Bluejay. The moniker struck her as strange, to be coined something much softer than herself. She supposed her appearance made up for it. Catching  her tongue between her teeth, Gjalla sucked in a breath as a gust of wind was thrust into her face. As she circled him, she noted the way his body shifted, eyes trailing her form without hesitation. "How polite of you." The princess retorted. There was no fear in him, only watchfulness. It was a shared thing—mutual curiosity wrapped in the guise of something predatory.

The princess lets out a noncommittal hum in response. The sarcasm that followed earned him a quiet huff of a laugh, the sound escaping her before she could stifle it. “I’d like to think I’ve got a better reputation than that.” she scoffed, half amuse, half derisive, voice dripping with incredulity.

She had been prepared to leave, to let this stranger be a passing figure in the haze, but now she found herself hesitating, curiosity piqued by the tired weight in his voice and the lines etched into his frame. At last, she loosened the breath in full, a plume of frost swirling from her lips. Shifted her weight, her claws curling into the frozen earth as if to ground herself, her eyes cutting back to Ulfric with renewed sharpness. “Shouldn't you be sulking off to your den for hibernation, beast?” she added, her tone evening out.

Angling her head, the woman swept her gaze over him once more, “or are you the brigand I'm expected to catch the eye of?”

seemingly, the peculiar woman finds some humor in the huntsman’s words, replying with a short grunt.
"i wouldn’t know," ulfric remarks, voice rough. "i look at you and see no reputation worth remembering." blunt, maybe too much so. he’s never seen anyone quite like her, and there are nicer ways to say as much. but niceties have never been his way.
they keep their distance, a habit learned in the wildlands. yet he can smell her, as if she had pressed along his face, his neck. something about that lingers. unsettles.
"but my assumptions of you don’t feel so off-kilter anymore." a thought left hanging, waiting to see if she takes it.
her voice mellows, like waves settling after a storm. not something he minds. there’s a quiet to it, something that smooths the edges of his usual irritation. pacified. a strange feeling. unwelcome, but not unpleasant.
he shifts, paws moving a step closer, his head tilting slightly. "you’re one funny woman." then, a breath later, "real damn funny." dry as sand in the blazing, bleeding sun.
beast.
he likes that.
but the mention of him as a troublemaker—that is a jab, soft but well-aimed. his eyes flick away from her, to the fog stretching behind. she doesn’t know. can’t know. no reason to bristle over it.
instead, he chuckles, though it’s little more than a scoff. "my work is hardly the same as harassing women on dirt paths, but it is just as shrewd…" a pause, a flick of his ear. "would you believe me if i told you that was enough for me?"
icy blue eyes return to her, unreadable. "is it enough for you?"

For a moment, Gjalla’s expression did not falter, though something flickered behind her eyes—too quick to discern, too stubborn to linger. The huntsman’s words hung like frost in the air between them, sharp enough to scrape against the quiet. She did not answer at first, letting silence deepen while she collected her thoughts. Her gaze flicked over him as if assessing him for a second—third?—time.

Finally, she spoke, unhurried but pointed, like the measured draw of a bowstring. “Enough isn’t what I’ve ever aimed for.” she repeated, the word heavy with doubt, the faintest edge of bitterness curling around its syllables. “It’s what you settle for when the fire’s gone out.” It was a cold truth, a harsh one, though she wasn’t certain that he needed it most.

When he chuckled—dry, dismissive—it grated against the silence, and she found her irritation pricking at her, threatening to boil over. Yet she kept it at bay, sharpening her words instead. “Your work might be a fine companion, but I doubt it’s good at conversation.” Her smirk was faint, a glimmer of mockery.

“Enough is a word for the contented. The comfortable. Wolves who don’t need to keep moving.” she continued, her tone measured. Her shoulders rolled back with quiet ease, but her gaze had not softened. If anything, it burned colder, like frost forming along the edges of a blade. She had stepped closer now, her figure cutting a dark line against the pale mist. Not too close—never too close—but just enough that the distance between them seemed to hum with tension. Her voice takes a lower tone, then. Intimate. “Are you comfortable, beast?”

ulfric does not move. does not shift, does not bristle. only watches.
her words slide through the quiet, cutting like ice. a cold truth, sharp as steel. his ear flicks, a breath slipping from his nose, but he does not answer.
not at first.
she steps closer. not near, but enough. enough to feel the space between them grow thin, humming with something. something. her voice dips, low, edged with something like challenge. are you comfortable, beast?
his head tilts, just slightly. blue eyes, sharp, searching. his tail sways once—slow. sultry.
"comfortable?" the word leaves him with a dry scoff, low in his throat. "no. never."
his gaze does not waver. and it is a heavy gaze, testing, appraising. watching her with an underlying hint of... what is that? desire?
"but you already know that."

there’s a charge in the air, pulled taut, thrumming between them like a plucked string. she sees the way he watches her—not just looking, but seeing. weighing, measuring. a beast, indeed, coiled with something restless and unspent. 

her lips part, a breath of amusement—of something else—ghosting past her teeth. “no,” she concedes, her voice quiet but firm. “i suppose you wouldn’t be.”

her gaze doesn’t falter, nor does she retreat. she lets the silence stretch, letting him feel it. letting him feel her. his tail sways again, just once, slow and deliberate. not idle. not careless. her head tips, just slightly, as if considering him.

“and yet you stay.” she murmurs, thoughtful now.

there: a sharp flash of teeth. a smile that betrays the mind's thoughts. ulfric looks upon this woman, woman of raven fur and periwinkle eyes, and sees in her something that has long evaded other women he's come upon.
she is not like others. she is something else entirely.
and so it was a shame that he must do the exact opposite of what she accuses: he must leave. go. it was not the contents of his heart to tie himself, to tether to something other than what was before him.
the land. the hunt. ulfric offers her the fragile tilt of his head, inhaling a breath. a breath he would savor, so he might carry this woman with him into the parts of these lands he would go and she would not follow.
i have met few women like you. ulfric confesses, as he nears. finding that her breath warms the end of his face, his nose that only hovers mere inches from hers. in another life, he does not finish his thought. only looks upon her eyes, and lets her find there what he thinks. what he feels.
he turns, shoulder awash with a coldness he did not think he meant to yield, and began the long walk away.

oh, she knows. knows the exact shape of his hunger, the way it lingers in the sharpness of his eyes, in the pause between words that never fully leave his tongue. she sees it when his breath brushes close, a plume of white, close enough that if she only dared—if she only moved a little—

she doesn’t. only watches, listens, holds the moment in her grasp, something she might wish to keep.

"i have met few women like you." a cruel thing to say when he means to leave.

she doesn’t answer, only looks at him, takes in his features while he is so near, takes in his words as they nearly become something more. But they do not. he doesn’t finish his thought—he is tempted, perhaps—but he does not.

coward.

and yet, the thought isn’t bitter. like their interaction, it was wry, something knowing. she finds in his eyes what he leaves unsaid, and she holds it there, clutches it to the marrow of her ribs where he cannot take it back from her.

then he is gone. she watches him go, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable. a breath slips from her nose, the ghost of a smirk curving upon her lips.

in another life. perhaps.