Boartusk Heights fires are made for dancing in

The short king had woken up on precisely thewrong side of the bed and had gone to clear his head. Well, ‘clearing his head’ was a fun way to say stalking the land for someone to growl at for whatever length of time they would stand and take it.

Fliathrí had to grumble as he went along, as well. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was adjusting to a purely nocturnal lifestyle. He’d hunt a boar for his new Highness, though the thought of it drove claws of sick through his belly. He shouldn’t be cowering at a queen’s feet, he should be stealing her from her throne in the dead of night and using her to bargain her own land away from her. Or something. 

He wasn’t particularly clever when he woke up angry.

And there was no one around thus far to growl at! So he’d taken to growling at nearby hares and chasing them down for their inability to sit still and listen. Served them right, honestly.