Hideaway Strath moonlight casted upon sinner's skin

Her jaws find their target, wrapping around -- nares sinking into the thin skin and grinding against the hard core of Whrist's muzzle. It has the desired effect, the crazed Specialist falling back as she sputters on her own blood. Fen watches her go, dragging herself back and away from the corvid as she hauls herself to unsteady feet on aching limbs. Her rosy lips remain peeled back in a severe snarl, the glint of her fangs promising that even if she couldn't win, the sylph would damn sure make it a hard-won triumph for her opponent. Her thin tail whips against her hindlegs in agitation, not unlike a provoked cat, as chary nickel optics remain honed on the shadeling. 

Her brow rumples vaguely with consternation as she watches the spiel of sudden emotion -- shock, shame, vulnerability -- play across the blood-soaked features of the dark fae. Her lips part, uncertain of what she will say, but the Saint is wheeling away and fleeing into the wood before Aerin can react. She sags in relief once it becomes clear that Whrist has truly gone, craning her neck to try and take stock of her injuries though the only one in her eyesight is her paw -- a crimson mess of blood and dirt where Whrist crushed it in her jaws. 

She's beyond trying to figure out the reasons for Whrist's attack, knowing there are none -- rational ones anyways. And any irrational explanation isn't good enough for the healer. The hart gathers her battered body and limps away from the scene of their impromptu brawl -- wondering if there's anyone up yet who might be able to help her tend to her wounds.