Qeya River [m] ghosts
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#1
All Welcome 
Gjalla woke with a sharp inhale, body rigid and damp with sweat. The shadows of her dreams clung to her like frost, sharp and biting, but she forced them down. Another night, another battle fought in her sleep. She jolted upright, forcing the haze from her head.

The den was quiet, save for the faint creak of the wind against the gnarled branches. She rubbed a paw over her face, breathing deeply, grounding herself. It didn’t help much. The memories still clawed at the edges of her mind. Spilled blood and gnashing teeth, the scent of iron still stung her nose, but she refused to let them win. Not now, not ever. 

She stood and stretched, her movements slow and deliberate. The cold air bit at her fur, but it was grounding in a way the silence wasn’t. There was a long day ahead, and she wasn’t about to let a few ghosts stop her.

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#2
blackfell had already been on his way, a plump hare dangling limp from his jaws. long legs carried him with hefty strides, crimson eyes floating about the treeline where her den lay.

she was emerging from the mouth of her den when he first saw her, looking the picture perfect stormcloud that she often was. a familiar sight; one he was used to in her, by now. she was quite a brooding woman.

he closed the distance, coming up behind her right flank where he brushes nose against her raven fur. the reaction was instant. she stiffened, and he could almost feel her hackles rise. a low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pulled back, sharp enough to avoid any snapping teeth. he liked her fire; he’d always liked it.

then, he shoved the hare against her shoulder, speaking through clenched teeth.

breakfast.
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#3
Gjalla barely acknowledged him at first, her focus elsewhere, eyes distant as though she were scanning the treeline for something—or someone. The metallic scent of blood still lingered in her nostrils, vile enough to make her stomach turn. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to the present.

A wet nose brushed against her fur, and she nearly jolted, ears snapping back as she whipped her head to glare at him over her shoulder, lips curling just enough to ward him off.

Her gaze dropped to the hare he pressed against her, its limp form a contrast to the vivid violence that still lingered in her mind. She stared at it for a moment before her eyes flicked back to him, narrowing slightly as she studied his expression.

“Generous,” She muttered. Her tone was edged, but it lacked the full force of her usual bite. The woman nudged the hare with her paw but didn’t reject it entirely, the gesture just shy of gratitude.

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#4
i can be, he replies with a knowing smirk, tail swishing, ears rounding as he still surveils for noises around them. ever the constant sentinel.

her movements, her glance, the way her tension rippled just beneath her fur—something was clearly bothering the woman. like any good prospective husband, the man leans forwards, head turning to catch a better angle of her face as the two of them fall into stride together.

thought you might need it. you look like you’ve seen a ghost.
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#5
Gjalla’s ears twitched, though she bit back her immediate response. Her eyes stayed forward, amber gaze fixed on the forest ahead as if she could will away whatever lingered in her mind. His comment drew a faint scoff from her, though the sound was more weary than derisive.

“Generous and observant, how quaint,” she muttered, matching her pace to his. Her tail swayed behind her in a restrained flick—she didn’t push him away, but she didn’t soften, either. 

“Dreams,” she finally admitted, voice clipped, as if the word itself was a concession. She kept her focus on the path, refusing to meet his gaze despite his attempts to catch hers.

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#6
he hums low in his throat while he follows at her side like a loyal dog.

bad ones? he guessed. he didn’t need her confirmation; the tension in her shoulders, the way her tone clipped at the edges, told him enough.

he glanced at her again, testing the waters, the edge of his smirk tempered by something unreadable. you think too much, gjalla. you should eat. it helps. the barest flicker of humor laced his tone, but it was clear he wasn’t jesting entirely. the hare remained hers, a quiet offering he wouldn’t take back.
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#7
gjalla’s lip curled faintly at his remark, a fleeting show of annoyance. “you’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” she grumbled. 

her gaze shifted to the hare for a moment, tongue sliding over her canines. a begrudging sigh slipped past her teeth before she paused, angling her head to his before scooping up its hindlegs between her teeth. still warm.

a little ways ahead was a fallen treetrunk braced against the window. she could eat there. "come."

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#8
he fell in step behind her, each stride longer than the last upon long legs, like a shadow trailing just out of reach.

you’re starting to soften, gjalla, he remarks playfully, mischeviously, as they near the trunk, taking it upon himself to move ahead of her. brushing past and taking a spot nearby, smart enough not to crowd the woman. his crimson eyes flicked toward her as she settled.

or maybe you’re just hungry enough to tolerate me.
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#9
the woman scoffs beneath her breath, rabbit still clenched between her teeth as she dropped her haunches to the earth, back pressed to cold bark.

"i have always tolerated you," she mused, flexing a paw over the carcass before her teeth sink into it, splitting flesh beneath fang. "doesn't make me like you. makes me civil."

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#10
blackfell huffs at her retorts; the warmth of his breath curling into the icy morning air as he sinks upon belly.

his side pressed against the log.

he watched her in silence, brooding stare scouring every inch of the woman before he grunted in resignation. the quiet was consuming and so he cleared his throat, turning a paw over to examine the rough, scarred pad.

why did you leave stormrift?
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#11
gjalla froze mid-bite, her jaws pausing over the hare’s flank. her eyes cut to him, sharp as the frost around them. she swallowed deliberately, the motion slow as if buying herself a moment to decide whether or not she’d even entertain the question.

when she finally spoke, her voice was cold, clipped. the subject was a raw wound, and even after two years, she wasn’t eager to let him prod at it. “i didn’t want to get married. what does it matter?”

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#12
the question doesn't settle well over her. blackfell hadn't expected it to.

at her clipped response, the man throws his paws up as if to feign innocence, or defeat, followed by the click of his teeth. nostrils flaring as he scents at the surroundings, searching for anything lingering. coming up empty, he returns to her.

eyes settling on her face, intense as if seeing through her. not judging you, princess. his voice comes like thunder and he moves to lay upon his side, paws tucking into his chest like a lounging cat.

just curious. you said i didn't know anything about you... he trails off, raising brows. enlighten me.
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#13
she didn’t look at him, focusing on the hare as she tore into the thigh. “Curiosity killed the crow,” she muttered, voice low, almost humorously.

still, his words lingered, hanging heavy like stormclouds. she could appreciate his effort, at the least. when she finally lifted her head, her gaze met his—steady, more passive than he was likely used to. "you'll have to be more specific, then. not quite sure what to tell you,"

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#14
she deflects and blackfell promptly fixes a look on the woman.

you know what i mean, he rumbles out. stormrift wasn’t just some place to you. yet here you are. he knew this because blackmarch was not just some place to him, and he and gjalla were cut from the same cloth.

he shifts and let his inquisitive eyes narrow on her. was it him?

tvar. he can't help the curl of his lip.
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#15
he does not approve of her amusement, for once, and sends her a hard look instead. his curiosity was a tightening noose, apparently.

gjalla’s teeth clicked together as her jaw snapped shut. for a moment, she said nothing, the silence stretching thin like ice beneath their feet.

“no,” she said finally.  it had never been tvar's fault, not really. she blamed his father, her mother—anyone who had part in their planned union. "it was not a matter of who, it was a matter of why."

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#16
he doesn't push it now. it's clear he isn't going to get much out of her. so, with a huff, the man brings himself upwards with long legs. giving himself a brisk shake, ridding himself of collected ice and snow upon his underbelly and chest.

only to sit down upon his haunches, pressing paws into the snow between his legs. you miss your family? he asks now.

hell, she knows how he feels about half of his.
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#17
gjalla’s posture shifted ever so slightly at the mention, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. for once, her gaze softened to something tender, touched by wistful light.

“yes,” she admitted quietly, the word almost swallowed by the icy wind. Her claws flexed against the snow, as if anchoring herself to the present. “they were… everything. still are, i suppose.”

“you don’t pick your blood, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” a rare, faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, flickering like a fragile flame.

the hare at her paws was nearly finished at her paws when she got an idea, lifting from her spot to lope through the brush. "come."

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#18
a smirk as she stands; beckons him to follow. but it is hidden behind a mask of seriousness, that shadows his handsome crown. a devilish look turns in crimson stare, following her ravenness hide as she goes. stepping through dead brush, past the log they had situated at.

he says nothing. only obeys. shoulders and hips swaying in strong motion with one another, large, wide paws breaking snow with faint crunches underfoot.
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#19
her head lifts to the heavens as she pads through the last of the barren foliage, pausing upon the ridge. a blanket of darkness was still thrown across the sky—she was thankful the sun had not yet pushed away the stars.

"what do you know of stormrift's culture, blackfell?" a genuine question, a test of his knowledge. if he was clueless to her homeland, she would teach him.

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#20
he watches as she casts eyes upwards, as if regaling the heavens. and there under the stars, they paint a picture of prosperity; of gloom never to be had, where she is a picture of beauty that is holy. he sees her, past crimson eyes, watching as raven fur falls over her in soft rivulets.

he knows he could never be worthy of her.

but by the gods, he would try.

he moves about her in a wide berth as she comes to a stop, eyes still upon the twilight. she asks him if he knows anything about her culture, and for a moment, his mind is blank. he simply watches her, eyes roaming from neck fur to face, and he is quiet for several moments. before, he speaks, voice softer now:

anything you wish me to know.
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#21
gjalla didn’t look at him immediately, still lost in the shimmering canvas of the night sky. the stars were a guide, whispers from those that they could no longer reach.

when blackfell spoke, the softness in his voice was enough to draw her attention. tender, distracted. "anything?" she repeated, testing the word on her tongue. there was something about the way he said it, something genuine.

she glanced back at the stars, as though seeking something in the darkness, something to ground her. “it is said that the stars are wolves,” she told him, “watching from home or valhalla, guiding us. a reminder that you are never alone.”

she paused, her chest tightening with the emotion she kept carefully hidden. her gaze flicked back to him now, curious. “what do you make of it?”

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#22
i believe it.

it would be easy for him to lie—he had done it before. and yet... he did not lie now. red eyes that meet periwinkle say this easily, lacking the mirth he usually wears on a black crown. perhaps he is biased, compelled by his affection for her.

it's hard to say. but now, as he strides closer, he lets his eyes rise to the twilight blanket above. a tufted chin tilting upwards, seeking out the stars, intertwined with the rising sun that melts the black ice into rivers of orange and red.

but it isn't long before his eyes drop to her once more. seeing her, earnestly, for what she is. who she is. and not just the beautiful face and fine breeding he sought from her before. she draws a chuckle not poisoned with mockery but of gentility from the man. our faiths are what tie us to who we are. his head tilts as he examines the expression toying on her sincere face. i would hope to go to valhalla one day.

a rawness given to only her. but not anytime soon. so to know that the stars will be there to receive me when i draw my final breath on this earth, his eyes blink closed in an affectionate delivery, well... i can't think of any better way.
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#23
gjalla’s gaze softened imperceptibly as he spoke. she expected mockery, or perhaps a retort, but instead, he was steady, touched by something real. she didn’t know how to place it, nor how to react, but it settled in her chest like peace.

instead, she simply nodded, turning her head to the heavens again, allowing the quiet moment to stretch between them. The air seemed to hold its breath, the rustling of the wind mingling with the distant whispers of the stars."smart man."

her eyes caught the shifting colors of the sky, a swirl of reds and oranges reflecting the rising sun while stars faded. it reminded her loosely of him.

“if you make it to valhalla... you’ll have earned it,” she murmured before stopping, unsure which route to take. "i will meet you there, if the gods favor us."

sobbing.

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#24
a smile comes, this one more characteristic for the man; full of amusement, and yet still gentle. lacking the aggressive bravado he so often wields. i intend to make it, princess. and i will see you there. and the way he speaks the words, they ring as true.

in every scenario of death he has dreamt up since he was a boy, he has went as a warrior. fighting with valor, strength. the perfect death for the man is to go by the teeth of his strongest son in the traditions of yore. this is what he tells her, now, as he turns; shoulder rippling with muscle beneath a coat of onyx. when i go, it shall be by bloodletting.

he is under no assumption she knows what he's referring to. roud, bearish ears pull upwards to listen to the sounds of her feet padding after him as he walks. my firstborn son will challenge me when i am gray and old. when i am ready to lay down my banner.

she has shared intimate details of her culture with him, within this icy dell, and he will do the same. his voice rumbles with a warrior's masculinity, recalling the olden and forsaken traditions. and i will die a warrior's death; if dracul sees fit to grant me this honor. this is the sacred way of crownore father and son. the false ones have forgotten it.
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#25
gjalla follows him in silence, listening. his conviction is undeniable, the way he speaks of his future with such clarity, such certainty. and yet, as she pads alongside him, the thought of his son rising to take his life stirs something uneasy in her chest. not fear—no, something more difficult to name.

her steps falter briefly, her ears twitching back as she considers what he’s said. “you sound so sure of it,” she murmurs, neither mocking nor dismissive. she casts a glance his way, catching the ripple of his shoulder and the proud set of his stride. “of your son. of the way your life will end.”

her gaze lingers on him for a moment before shifting back to the stars, their glow beginning to pale against the encroaching dawn. “i hope you do not expect the son to be ours.” she says finally, amused. as sure he is of his firstborn, she is sure she will have a daughter. several, perhaps. “a daughter, maybe.”

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