Dawnlark Plains ᛁᛚᛚᛏᛁᛋᚾᚨ

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anoré's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps that morning. the rising sun cast the land in pale hues, but it did nothing to quell the fire that seethed in her chest. to soothe the inky images of past loves she saw in sleep and cursed in life. she thought herself a fool.
and for that, fury bled from every part of her. from the tips of her claws to the pounding of her incessant heart. stupid girl. 
with a snarl, she rose to her feet, and the wind carried her to the plains. instincts fell on deaf ears—something, someone, was here, who reeked of the heartlands.
she crested a small hill, just a ways from a dark silhouette below. the sight of such a titan sent a jolt through her spine—tall, dark, with muscles that flexed beneath a tough, wihered hide. 
"kol? adonis?" she thinks. no, neither. but the resemblance was so striking that for a moment, it felt like she was looking at a ghost. she knew it wasn't them. but it didn't matter. all she could see were the men who took, and took, and took until they'd reduced her to ash and marrow-sucked bone. until her rage was the only thing she could hold at night. the fire in her chest flared brighter, hotter, until it consumed every shred of reason.
she was upon him like a storm without warning—swift, violent, and angry. the snarl that exploded from her throat  was a feral, guttural thing, a cry so raw it challenged odin's thunder. 
anoré sought to kill. to strip flesh from sinew and string up the corpse. to see the blood-sack sputter and gush beneath her talons and on her tongue. until she'd consumed them as they did her.