Swiftcurrent Creek Freeway dirt bike, popping wheelies

Fang met flesh—the trespasser snarling as the two men descended on him. His own aims were  given in demand and punishment alike—to get this man off his land and now.

Claws swiped at him—bruising, and a flurry of desperation, as one would with two large wolves assisting him out.

Akavir’s assault on the man’s flesh and blood only desisted when he turned and fled from them—a snarl reverberating in his throat as his eyes drifted to the others.

Without another word he swept away, his tongue sliding over his lips to clean the blood—noting some of his own was mingled with it.