Fox's Glade hi welcome to dennys

So entranced for the worse was Aurëwen that by the time she heaved her weight into her hocks, she reared to meet his cavernous maw too late: the Doom was upon her once more in all of his slavering, sickening silver. There was a fluttery, frantic, dove’s hope in her breast as his fangs only scraped her shoulder; but an off-kilter terror when they razed up her cheek—

—and, with a malicious shudder, lanced through the jelly of her eye.

With a shriek that curdled her own marrow, Aurëwen faltered, the heave of the Huntsman still crowding her. As the blood began to swell, she staggered from beneath him, the earth’s grime on her paws making her list all over herself. Away away away, her retreat unsteady, dark red taking to her fur the way ink does to water paint.

In this moment she wanted to think of how ludricous she really was — half a league from Diaspora, with no company to keep except this specter from her past. Instead, a myriad of how could she ever use this anguish to retaliate? was surging through Aure’s frenetic mind. 

With a sweep of her head, snout fit to snarl, she studied the Doom with her remaining argent eye, and all the while fought to keep her muddied footing; fought to keep herself from trembling so entirely. She would die here if she couldn’t ward him off.