Redhawk Caldera A-a-and clean this place up or dungeon!

This was not a comfortable position for either of them. The more Phox wriggled, the more Titmouse shimmied. They were a squirming pile of bodies, but with one dripping blood on to the den floor and the other trying to get a fresh breath of air. At some point Phox must've twisted in to the prime angle because Titmouse was promptly dropped from his perch in to the dust, and he rolled on his chubby belly until he was on his back and his nose got all stuffed up with blood and dust. He squealed and protested with tiny chirps, reaching with his itty-bitty feet to try and smack at his blunt nose; he was trying to free his snout of the smell and the sensation, to no avail. And it wasn't a fun experience -- soon his squeaking turned in to a little squal, then his characteristic screeching.