Dawnlark Plains ᛁᛚᛚᛏᛁᛋᚾᚨ

she scoffs, sharp against his ear as he presses in close. his tail’s confident sway, the low timbre of his voice—all of it reeked of rut-drunken bravado and northern entitlement.
it was a practiced act that she normally found appealing. but she did not desire his warmth. 
"maðurinn minn er enginn maður. féll í brjálæði. veikburða, aumkunarverður. og börn, farin." she mutters, her tongue as cold as her sneer.
she grunts as he shoves his snout into the plush curve of her throat. the smell of sulfur and bitter steel assaults her senses and she grits her teeth.
he was eager. and she was tired of his prancing, all puffed up with pride like it meant something. it earns him a swift nip to the flushed skin of his neck. a sting he cannot ignore.
when her eyes find him again, they are cold and mean and contemptuous. but deep down she knows, like all northmen, he likes it. the prospect of challenge.
she would make it clear that she would not play his game.
"ég skildi eftir gröf sem myndi ekki hætta að stækka. ég verð þreytt á að vera notuð. eins og verðlaun, eins og gjöf." 
her ears pull back for a moment and she turns, tail lashing behind her, "notaðu mig ekki fyrir hverfula ánægju þína, drøugr."