Qeya River your ivy grows

for @Faliya

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the qeya river runs black beneath its ice. where it all began.

blackfell stands at its edge, stiff of shoulder and squared with a glowering stare. and then, suddenly, he moves. his steps carving deep through the snowpack as he follows the edge, among where the trees begin to thin.

he stares out over the empty expanse of snow that surrounds the stretching river. it is cold and quiet without the presence of clan life, yet the caribou herd remains. a constant.

the raven above him circles, wings stretching wide against the pale sky. blackfell's dark crown turns upwards as he glimpses, only for crimson stare to turn elsewhere again. forever following after the fading scent of the girl, overstepped by elk print.

---

river. it is a place she cannot place in memory, and yet her body knows it enough to return to it, to make it home. she does not know where daa’ka has gone, nor the pack—she lost sight in a flood, and so she is here, feeding from scraps like a vulture.

she can see the resemblance, she supposes—they have allowed her to see it, circling the territory like there was someone to find. omens of death that leap at any opportunity to feast.

she does not know where the negative connotation of them comes from, in truth. markers of death, she has learned. opportunists, and yet they have not taken the opportunity she presented them with in a silver platter—they have not descended upon her.

they linger even now, when there is nothing but life—only caribou, only her. a swarm of them soar overhead, scouring. was it her who kept them close? her skin and bones, her clinging to life? or did something else hold their attention?

---

upon the wind, a scent finally drifts towards him. and that crimson stare narrows, sweeping the length of the widening expansion. the river narrows in the far distance where it is less tumultuous, seeking not to claim life but to feed into the far channels.

his gaze lifts from the churned tracks at his feet and soon finds her shape near the river’s edge, thin and solitary. a willowy young woman, cutting the daunting image of sun eater. and at the mere sight, blackfell must choke down the threaten of a snarl.

he loathes. he burns with his loathing. but this girl is innocent. innocent. innocent. he reminds himself with shallow breaths as he turns to amble his way in her direction. along the winding river, a slow, thundering of paws. cutting iron gaze fixated on her.

the raven's wings cut the cold air as it settles near her with a dry click of talons. settling against the frozen bark of a fallen tree. its equally as crimson eyes consuming upon her form while blackfell remains several lengths back.

---

it would seem the buzzards do have reason to circle, and they do so with the utmost displeasure. the man comes as a shadow does, a mighty beast of black gaping with twin embers of blood red—most unwelcome. they stare, and she stares back, apprehensive. her throat tightens; the faintest whimper threatens to escape as her lips curl up then back again, flashing teeth stained with the remnants of her last meal. a flicker of her pink tongue darts out, sliding across fang and moistening her lips in nervous gesture. fa'liya's legs curl closed beneath her in defense, a desperate act of defense against the encroaching dread. her ears flatten.

for an agonizing moment, silence swallows them whole and they do nothing at all, locked in stalemate. their breaths synchronize in shared space. the beast does not budge, and so the girl grates her voice to speak. she is sure it will add no fear factor, she prays it is enough to make him more keen to move on. there was nothing for him here. "not looking for friends. go away." she hisses, lanzadoii rolling hard from her tongue.

---

the girl's tone is low, grating, chipped away with an edge that belies her nature. it is met with a narrowing red gaze from the norseman who hovers near her. black shadow spreading like a plague. his footsteps crunch over hardened, packed snow. he drifts closer, edging into her circle with inky black fur and unsettling eyes.

do you speak normal, girl? he rumbles back, jaws snapping his displeasure. or only heathen? comes his broken, drawled lanzadoii. it does not sound right on his tongue, and he doesn't care for it to. it is a disgusting speech.

the raven lurks closer to her on bouncing legs and croaks loudly, head cocking. blackfell circles around her with a slinking, lowering gait and assesses her.

your mother looks for you.

---

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.