Duck Lake a queen i am, but my throne is made of burned bones

The pale brute watched as her fur bristled slightly upon him drawing nearer and he allowed for a smirk to curl the dark of his lips upwards only slightly. The dark woman had always been a vicious warrior; a fighter of all things, and he did not doubt that this would never change. Once familiarity had set in, she tore a chunk of her kill off and tossed it in his direction. The ghost parted his jaws and with a snap, clasped his fangs around the meat. Kierkegaard then lowered his head and tore a chunk away, swallowing it without chewing it. The taste of the bird on his throat was divine, and so he ripped away the remainder of it without pause and wormed it down the back of his throat.
 
Her words struck his ears and the brute drew them forward, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as if looking upon an old friend. “You never gave me the benefit of the doubt before, why should that change?” the great brute teased with a flash of his fiery optics. The Heda looked well enough, but he was surprised to see her in the Teekon Wilds and so far away from her home. Wondering what had drawn her to such an area, the brute lowered his skull somewhat and cast an curious glance toward her.