Honeyed Pasture kitchen fork

It happens.

The doe fumbled, bloodloss and fear making a mockery of her usual grace, a hock caught by an errant root. Her chest met the ground, and she does not recover quickly. She cannot get the injured leg to cooperate with her.

It is enough for Vairë.

Like a river, moondoe carved through the space between them. Jackknifing into place beside the doe’s head, she snapped for a hold on its neck, keeping one eye on the shadow shape of the man she thought may be her brother.