Duskfire Glacier [m] Tshärr

Felled by Skorpa’s strafe, the creature writhes and screams and Ayovi is called to sever it’s hide with long bites; pulling at chest and nape until rout singes her nose and heartbeats dwindle to conquering growls. Warm blood floods her mouth, smothers her maw. The huntress laps greedily, wetting her tongue, fraying sinews.
But it is not enough.
She whirls, cavorting wildly, latching those hot-soaked fangs to the side of the northman’s cheek and pulling— not intending to draw blood. But the same cannot be said of his shoulder, where she presses her scent with furious insistence.
Next week— next week his glib tongue may be something she runs from.
Today she canters about him, turning the hunt on the bear, darting a tongue from flank to thigh, and jerking away.