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

The stricken is deafened to the braying; the ululating tongue bloated with what anguish she has first wreaked upon their behemothic quarry  –  shrieking that ripples into bleating screams as she relieves the socket of its eye and she does not have to be left to wrest this beast for long  —  Melkor is there, billowing forth and it is not long 'til greenlord's end for a wellspring of red fountains by the touch of Valitúrë's fangs scything through hide and flesh; further;
the bull is staggering, cyclop'd and side-trotting, stumbling and she is doused in the lifeblood of it, clawing and clinging and she is shaken from its heaving spine; her own meets but she scrambles and scrapes to evade being smote beneath the elk's impending and inevitable plummet.

Eventually  –  when the gleam has left the halfsight of the beast and its flanks flutter no more  –  Andraste haltingly gathers her bearing once more. Stilted, shivering limbs; the fée does not bother to cleanse herself of spilt redwine, not as she picks her way towards their fallen find; looks to the warlord to see and know he has not come out of this too scathed;
quiet and pensive, for now. Breathless, dazed; winded.