Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

just… the best

Though consumed with frustration was she, Harley immediately took notice of the figure in the background. He traipsed around the meadow as would a bull in a china shop, and very quickly the blame of her failed hunt shifted from her inexperience in hunting fowl to him, entirely. She was nearly certain that if he had not arrived on the scene, the gull would hang limp in her mouth and she would go to sleep that night, belly warm and full — and how her temper flared at the thought of another night, alone and cold.

The velveteen hoyden held in breath, then dispersed it slowly through pursed lips, feeling her escape from her release valve. Raiden had always told her of this, that she was too quick to anger — and over things that were not worth being angry about — and so Harley bit her tongue, swallowed the bark that clamored in her throat, and pressed forward to approach him. She supposed there was a possibility that it was not his fault, and it was just her hunger, making her cranky. The girl drifted closer upon four black stockings, stopping several yards away. 

“It is not fair,” she mused.  “How they can fly, but we can’t…”