It thudded, numb. It oozed through her, that blood, that soul, but it was cold. Her moods swung ever-further from their set position, but only in one direction and never quite all the way back. Poplar was on fire, a wild flame burning her from the inside out. The flicker was white-hot and difficult to control. It was inescapable like a drug. It penetrated the seemingly-impenetrable hide of the doe, attacking her heart and her hips, joining them with bright red threads. It gnawed at her like a dog to a bone, tore and rent her insides to ribbons, yet bound her tightly and wound her even more snug.

One day maybe she would learn that the feelings were natural, normal, occurring every couple of months. Every couple of months the doe would become a demon, it seemed. Her mind would narrow to fights and to strange thoughts toward stags. Brotherly beasts would become targets, and she would hunt them. Watching, the fire consuming her as she did so. Burning up her mind like a fever, it would soon cause more issues than things were worth.

Estrus was a powerful thing.