It is with pure elegance that she appears from behind the thick brush, with a coat that is as red and brown and a scent of hints of honey; she is a sight to be held. But her fury is present in the snarl and snap of her teeth. With claws that are sharper than a blade, one can see why my dear friend has sustained the wounds that he has.
Yet, it seems that she is not done yet, for she is descending on him rather fast. She is here to settle a score, and it does seem that she shall not leave here until her mate finds himself dead. How love can turn so wicked, or yet should I say betrayal. Betrayal is the scorned man's greatest weapon, and it has been handed to Mirabelle to yield as she finds fit.
Though it seems that I will not be the one that shall have my justice. This mutt, this friend, he shall die at the hands of another.
So I only but step aside…and what a fateful mistake…for next…
