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

andraste lays out the plan in hushed lilt, explaining what she will do and what he is then to do. for the briefest of moments the ghost of a frown tugs at the corners of his lips — she will be in danger; of thrashing antlers and bucking stag. be careful, is what melkor desires to utter to her but before he has the chance she is gone; ascending. melkor doesn't stay to watch her climb — there is no time. he must get into his own position; has his own duty in this battle.

from the foliage of the brush and stone cast shadows of his own path directly below the beast melkor stalks; waiting. the angry, pained bleating ( words that melkor, unfortunately can't understand ) of their quarry is his cue and without further ado he lopes up the short stone path to appear before the trashing, bleeding beast. a second; a second is all he spares to glimpse at andraste clinging atop it's back. a breath is taken and he is rushing at the ungulate; glacial gaze locked upon the strong column of throat with jaws parted and teeth aiming to sink into the supple and yielding flesh in an effort to end it's suffering.