Ravensblood Forest journey before destination

Erëa.
An untapped specter streaked through her chosen practice; with every reach of her paws, the power within her coiled, taut, tauter;

Atta.
Her paws twisted beneath her to swing her alabaster body mid-rush, scythelike;

Neldë.
Facing the way she’d come — for all but a heartbeat — her hinds struck out into evening mightily, sure to ward even the boldest away; she was sure;

Cantëa.
The form of her half-reared figure crescented leftwise, where she let the weight of the world have her plummet, twisting her breast towards her imagined adversary.

Lempë.
With a surge, a sylvan shriek, the herbalist scored her claws and fangs down the would-be’s face, seeking to render nose or eye or ear and taste the forsaken flesh on her tongue.

Enquë.
Hide disheveled in a bloodletting disarray, Aurëwen pirouetted, sighted the voyager, and loosed a remarkable snarl — dribbling spittle — at he who lingered there. In the lull that followed, her feathered tail continued to whip-crack, to split silence.

Wasn’t she fearsome?

The eve following the treachery of whoever’d left her  (and the remainder of her family)  bereft of a son now found Aure doing what she tried to do best: adapting to this horrendous change, and trying to brush up on her inglorious skillset. With Verx just about bedridden and Isi skulking the shadows, there was no one to aid in her instruction of what she tried to execute: a ‘simple’ back-kick.

...Why wasn’t he leaving?