Dawnlark Plains rake my teeth 'gainst your beating heart

Her worn pearls unsheathed and brimming with an elated ferocious, spent no time waiting after the diverge of the mule deer's route. They may be tag hunting, but the crown was reserved for her, and she would make it so. She was not aware a it wasn't the true king, perhaps some wayward thane or prince of the ruler's brood and wives. Perhaps if this fact was left without discussion, it would not stain so much on her character record. 

The lady and fae huntress alike groped the now rippling muscles of the male's neck, already tasting what was soon to be a shared celebratory feast for the wrongfully exiled faeries. She wouldn't mind sitting at the head of the carcass, both antlers, tucked nicely next to her and a leg draping over one as she sucked her teeth in triumph. Sticking it to Fionn further more would be excellent, she supposed. Embellishing her fort with reasures and a pelt to widen the eys of any fortunate onlooker . . . yes, the greatest of her kind.

As Aoibh's eyes made wet creases as her grip failed to falter from the neck, as her back legs dragged against the ground wildly, she hoped Orlaith would simply provide that hearty weight so the crown and kill would be hers to claim and revel in later. If the fierey fae dared move for the crown . . . she'd have two hides to decorate her walls. She'd save the heart for her at least. A heart for a hearty and fiery woman seemed fitting enough, yes.