Days after Fríða's battle the young queen still was still riding the high of her success, feeling quite pleased with herself. The stallion she'd chosen was an intriguing little thing, and she found herself wanting to know more about him. Perhaps she'd even try to get some mares soon. He'd be needing the company - it wasn't like Fríða was about to try and woo him. She was far too busy thinking about how to get the attention of another.

That had been part of the reason she'd snatched the Lagoon boy in the first place. It went beyond mere covetousness. Yes, it was true she hoped this will be the first step towards building a successful herd, but there was more to it than that. Above all else she unashamedly hoped that the Lagoon stallion's presence would inspire some response, some interaction, from Ender. He'd been illusive lately, nothing more than a ghost in her periphery, and Fríða could not help but take his distance for disinterest.

She had tried tracking him through the jungle but it was always a furtive game of cat-and-mouse, her pale king slipping away before she could pin him beneath her paws and keep him from scurrying away again. She had tried being patient to see if he would come to her and had accomplished nothing but spending many hours waiting in the woods, feeling frustrated and embarrassed and lonely. Her, a queen, wasting time waiting for a man. It made her feel pathetic. Were it not for the company of Azrael, sweet boy that he was, she might have gone mad by now.

If all else failed, a small sinister voice chimed in in the back of her mind, the Lagoon stallion had offered his... "services" to her. Even if no fruit was borne of that particular endeavor, Fríða wondered if the smell of another man on her skin would be enough to get her king's attention at last.

She hated that she longed for the pale stallion. She couldn't understand how it was that she could love and loathe him in equal measure. How she could want to sidle up to him like a happy cat and simultaneously tear his damn face off like a rabid wolf. He was fascinating and infuriating and their time together was often volatile but nonetheless she wanted him, and all the attention he had to give. If invoking jealousy was the only way to capture it again, she would steal every last stallion from the other islands to make it happen. At least if he was fighting with her, she knew he was not wandering off. She would rather he spend his days bickering with her, occasionally taking their frustrations out on the battlefield and in bed, than seeking company and comfort with another mare.

The thought set her on edge and brought a harshness to her footfalls. As she stomped down the trail, the sun filtering in through the canopy above, Fríða took notice of how loudly her footfalls seemed to echo through the forest. A hush had fallen over the jungle. Even the birds in the canopy, usually so chatty, have muted their merry tunes, not a peep to be heard. The pale queen paused in the middle of the path, an unpleasant prickling sensation slithering its way from crown to croup. Something was not right.

In the eerie silence the whisper of shifting leaves seemed as loud as a falling tree. In a flash Fríða turned her head and cast a wary gaze over her shoulder, only to be met with the sight of a half-grown jaguar leaping from the underbrush. For an instant blue eyes met gold, prey and predator nearly face-to-face. Fríða's heard leapt into her throat, lodging uncomfortably in her windpipe and smothering any cries that bubbled from her chest.

She tried to run but the cat was quicker. She barely made it two strides before it leapt upon her, razor-like claws digging into the flesh of her croup where it has gained a grip just behind her tail. Its jaws open as it attempted to bite down, its back legs scrambling in the air for purchase that could not be found.

A ragged squeal finally tore its way from Fríða's pale lips, the whites of her eyes flashing as fear overpowered all other thought. She acted on instinct, shifting her weight forward and kicking out her rear legs in an attempt to shake the feline from where it clung painfully to her body. Its grip loosened as she bucked, but as it scrambled to hang on its thorn-sharp talons dug further into her haunches, scraping angry red wounds across her skin. Fríða bucked again and her hooves connected with - something, legs, a stomach, she didn't care. It dealt a sharp enough blow that the cat finally released its grip on her hindquarters and fell to the ground with a thud and a yowl that echoed through the hushed forest around them.

Fríða did not stick around to see if it was injured, fleeing swiftly into the jungle. The deep punctures on her hindquarters wept with each stride, blood carving crimson rivers down her haunches. She did not dare stop to see how bad the injuries were, to assess how deep the beast had sliced into her skin. She simply ran, trying desperately to place as much distance as possible between herself and the feline.