Porcupine Ridge ❝—berries tart & lilac sweet.❞ (wdg.)

Her rook gestures —
“Yes,”  voice drawled low with unfathomable intrigue; halfsights cowling now with some misted design.  “I am small enough to reach between its tines. I will blind it from above,”  uplifting her scarification to the protrusions of rises and ridges of ravine that loomed o’er the bull’s clawfoot’d crown.  “You must rush for ze great vein, wherein ze river of blood lies.”  Was not learned in the naming of such anatomy that sequestered away vitality – did not need to. He was warlord, and so surely he would know; must know that they would not fail.

And she would see her love again.

So she does not reach for Melkor as she parts, neverminding her soul's urgings; the dark fever has come to crowd 'round the edges of argent eyes;
creature creature impling ghoulthing seelie that crept among wosemen, clambering softstep up and up the montane clutches and crags;
several stifling heartbeats since then, now she had arrow'd herself from up on high; falling streaking through duskair and mornlight, tucking holding herself close as she promptly dropped upon the elkthing's very shoulders and set to beginning its end.

Pinching leonine the base of the skull; wringing so that the kingprime might undulate and bare oakthroat to the tundrian within winterbrush; fangs scything into the jelly of the greenlord's eye, tongue tasting the egg of it, claret  –  cleaves unto the other, perhaps, perhaps not  —  molding the rest of herself against thrashing neck and roiling shoulders all beneath the thundercrack tines.