Qeya River the dark knight

much long awaited starter for @Blackfell lmao

the winds were calmer in the valley. not biting and bitter cold as they'd been in the peaks where emýr had descended. they'd been his haven, despite their treacherous slopes and harsh climate. 

it was fitting for him to have been holed up in the mountains, as a man who craves solitude. but alas, he'd overstayed his welcome and the call for something more whispered in his mind, beckoning him to the valleys. 

or rather, a scent. 

a familiar one, and yet, he couldn't put a name to it. it teased him, taunted him, as he tried to place it. it was of a crownore, that much was certain. but whom? 

not kaelith, or any of his other siblings. those scents he would recognize from millions of miles away, and the last he'd seen them was at the gates of winterhelm. 

it makes him feel uneasy. he wants to avoid it, but he's drawn to it. like a moth to a flame. and so he lurks near borders heavily scented, lingering like a phantom. waiting.

as always, he is a stoic figure alongside the woman. her shadow, her shield. his head lowered amongst his shoulders, moving with long strides, scarred legs upholding an iron will.

he looks over, to see @Gjalla at his side. and he knows that she fits there. two pieces of a puzzle, meant to soar together. she is ice, he is fire—two catalysts, yet her cool does not extinguish him. he only burns hotter.

her scent a tempting thing. he might have brought them both tangling to the snow now if it were not for the lingering presence of something nearby...

something crownore.

which immediately prickles his hide, guard hairs instinctively rising like the quills of a porcupine. ready to sting. gjalla senses it too, the way she stiffens at his side; her eyes finding his, and his jaw hardens as he passes crimson eyes over.

there, come walking through the forest, a bastard. blackfell marches forwards, tail a flag of arrogance, of superiority, lips curled back tight. and not only was he a loathed cousin, he was trespassing!

she knows him before her eyes confirm it.

beside her, blackfell bristles, his ire flaring like an open flame, and she feels it in the way his muscles coil, in the way his breath shortens. he is prepared to act, to meet the trespasser with the full force of his fury, and yet he is still.

she does not speak. words were unnecessary when silence can say more. instead, her shoulder brushes against his, firm yet fleeting, a warning in the cold press of her body against his heat. not yet.

her eyes do not leave emýr as she takes him in. he is no fool. he will know what it means, the way she stands—neither hostile nor welcoming, but poised. watching. judging. the breath between action and restraint.

blackfell's lip curls, his tail high, a threat in posture alone, but her gaze flicks to him once, just once, and that is enough. the smallest shift in her stance, the slow but deliberate exhale from her nose—a silent command to hold. to wait.

"you are far from home." she breathes, "surely you know better than to trespass."

there they are. one cut from stone and forged in fire, the other a mistress of the night. he recognizes neither, but the man who's postured and stiff reeks of crownore. 

emerald eyes narrow as he steps forward, half of him cloaked in light, the rear shrouded. a cousin, perhaps? he certainly wasn't of winterhelm blood. 

blackmarch, perhaps. his throat fills with poison. he'd never liked blackmarch.

so quick to anger, it seemed. pitiful. he hadn't even said a word. 

the woman speaks first. he regards her with a low hum, as his neck lowers and his shoulders square just slightly. readying himself, if her hound was to be unleashed. 

"passing through. smelled crownore." his voice was rough, low. there weren't many opportunities for chat up in the mountains. his eyes falls to his kin, assessing. "you," he spoke. "blackmarch? you're far from home, too. what's a crow like you doing all the way out here?" 

running from something? or someone? 

perhaps he and this cousin had something in common, though he had an inkling this reunion would be unsavory.

none of your fucking business, a snap of his teeth, catching air, slicing, and saliva stringing from black jaws. one more step. one more fucking step.

blackfell would rip his head off. that was what all of them had coming. blackfell would have toppled their precious monarchy already if—

passing through. smelling crownore. his tail flags high behind him at this reasoning, every urge instinctive that he charge now and take what he was owed in blood. but gjalla kept him at bay. poisoning him with reason. with rationale. and even though blackfell was subservient to sun eater—for now—blackmarch wolves bow to no one—least of all to traitorous kin.

and his cousin’s jab rolls off him like rain over stone.

he steps closer, towering now, teeth barely hidden. YOU, he corrects, swiping red eyes from top his head to the paws he stood upon. leave. now. he spits. before i detach your throat from your neck. he gestures as such with his paw, just to drive his point home.

hostile. typical. all fucking blackmarch bastards were the same. so easy to rile up, and so quick to fall because of their arrogance. or was it ego? 

obviously, his cousin had plenty of both. 

emýr stands unmoving, eyes half-lidded with what may be boredom. he had no quarrel with this man—doesn't even know his name, and frankly, he doesn't care to. not now, when the man was seeing red. 

he snorts with humorless intent. "is this how you greet all kin? you don't even know my name, and here you are, threatening to feed me to the crows." he rasped. shoulders squaring further, each sinewy muscle in his frame tense. anticipating, waiting. 

"typical blackmarches. no loyalty. and what if i wished to join your pack? is this how you greet those seeking refuge, too?" he raised a brow. he'd lit the match now, and surely the man's fuse would blow.

gjalla watches with growing disinterest, the frayed thread of her patience worn thin by the theatrics of men too stubborn to back down. the tension between them crackles, ice ready to fracture, and she is already exhausted by it. she had no love for blackmarch arrogance, even from blackfell, nor for bastards who slunk from the mountains expecting something other than scorn.

her ears flick, barely betraying her annoyance, but she does not intervene. blackfell is bristling, an inferno barely restrained, and she no longer cares to douse it. If emýr was so determined to prod and pry, then he could suffer the consequences.

she does not move as Blackfell closes the space, does not so much as shift to halt him. her silence is a verdict, an unspoken permission. if he was looking for a reason to tear the bastard apart, she would not stop him. 

"you could be his fucking brother and it would make no difference," she says at last, “we don’t know you, and you invade saatsine borders for no apparent reason. you believe that is how you join a pack?”

her tail flicks once, and she turns her head slightly, enough to regard blackfell in her periphery. the message is clear. any further, and he could do whatever he wanted.

it is blackfell's mercy that had stood the test of time for so many years. the single thread that frayed, letting him stand apart from his cruel sire.

the onyx beast cuts through bitter cold while crimson eyes burn into emýr’s skull. rage simmers beneath the surface—silent, controlled—but ready to erupt. there is no warning. no patience.

blackfell closes the distance between them with terrifying speed, his breath hot and sharp as it fans across the other man's face. his body looms, muscles taut beneath his onyx pelt, guard hairs standing on end; so taut they could snap at any moment.

do not fucking call me kin. i would bleed myself if it rid me of the blood i share with you.

his voice is low, venomous. there is no bravado, no empty threat. it is a promise of violence should emýr make the mistake of speaking again. blackfell's teeth snap with a vicious finality, jaws mere inches from his cousin’s snout.

now, tongue licks over teeth to speak their ancestral tongue.

þú lítur út eins og pabbi þinn. þú lyktar líka eins og hann. þú hefur hans svikara blóð.

þú gerir mig ógeð. ég myndi aldrei leyfa þér að ganga þar sem ég geng. að anda að sér sama lofti og konan mín.

og ég mun ekki segja þér að fara aftur.

there is no urgency in emýr's emerald, steely gaze. only defiance as the two crownore's come face to face. his cousin is seething, furious. it nearly makes him laugh. 

his tail lashes at his hind, fueled by anticipation and energy that sizzles in his veins. he isn't angry, he isn't snarling and posturing like this fucking hound. he holds his air of nobility, if not only to show that he, unlike his cousin, could keep his fucking cool. 

his father his mentioned. it makes his teeth itch and ache. the tongue of their home is spoken, and his eyes narrow. his cousin has no right to speak it, and emýr imagines what it'd be like to steal the tongue from those jaws he keeps snapping. 

he remembers now, who this man is. the stories he'd heard in winterhelm about the king of blackmarch that'd been exiled. how pitiful.

who is this traitor to act so high and mighty? who is this dog to act as if his blood is purer than emýr's? 

þú talar eins og þú sért hinn síðari. eins og þú gætir gengið á vatni. en þú ert ekkert annað en helvítis óhreinindin undir fótunum á mér.

the words are spoken calmly, his voice dark. 

he smiles then, tight-lipped and taunting. 

konungur gleymir stað í einn dag. þú varst í útlegð, kæri frændi. fólkið þitt yfirgaf þig. þú ert fokking ekkert. og hér ertu, felur þig eins og hugleysinginn sem þú ert.

his woman.

it flits through her mind, a flicker of something primal and sharp. possessive, like the gnash of teeth around prey. his woman. she is not sure if it should offend her—should bristle at the claim, but there’s something else that curls in her ribs instead, something molten, dark and old as the bones of the land.

the words exchanged between the pair are bitter, venom spit between distant kin who refuse to claim each other. but emyr, for all his arrogance, for all his postured nobility, overplays his hand.

"fólkið þitt yfirgaf þig." that was his mistake. that was where he fucking lost her.

the breath between them is a thread pulled too taut—so thin it could be severed in an instant. gjalla is the sheath holding the blade—blackfell is the knife. one second she is standing, still as the mountains—the next, she is lunging, moving to blackfell’s flank with all the fury of a storm breaking. not in front of him, with him. A shadow at his side, poised to cut silence any beast that dare rise against him. 

there is no warning in her eyes, only cold resolve. gjalla has little patience for family quarrels, but she has less patience for insolence. for some self-important stray who thought he could waltz down from his fucking peaks and talk down to them.

to him. her lips peel back, and her hackles bristle, but she does not strike—not yet. she is waiting, poised on the knife’s edge, daring him to make the mistake of pushing further. daring him to test his fucking luck.

they would not hesitate, they never did.

blackfell hears emýr’s words and for a moment—a heartbeat—there is stillness. no movement, no sound, just the frigid weight of the taiga around them. then he breathes, slow, the intake of breath, and that breath turns into a low, guttural snarl that vibrates in his chest.

this bastard dares.

blackfell laughs. what a fool. a fool who knows nothing, nothing but the lies spilled to him by a lying father. his people wept! they wept on the day blackfell left! on the day he promised he would return. the arrogance of his cousin. he opens his jaws to speak and expels venom. you know nothing of blackmarch. of the blood that spilled to keep its wolves standing. his voice raises to a fever pitch. the echoing command, the reverberating shout of a king. the trembling voice of dracul speaking through him. 

he feels gjalla at his side, her fury a palpable force. it hums between them like a second heartbeat, a shared rage—dark and endless. she fuels him; his tail arches higher, a banner of dominance and authority. her snarl a battle cry. the token flipped, the paw to fan the flame of bloodlust in his calloused chest.

he had chosen amity.

his teeth bare now in a deadly grin. my mistake was not going to war. i will rectify it by killing you.

fuck amity.

his body coils, then he lunges. jaws part and close with a sickening crunch around emýr’s snout, teeth sinking deep into flesh as a growl rips free from his throat. and he shakes violently, savagely, like a beast tearing flesh from prey to feast on, a bird gulping down its kill. crimson eyes burning with a hatred generations old—a hatred which poisoned him. a deep and cruel prejudice.

he will know blackmarch's wrath, and may he never speak ilk again.