Redhawk Caldera If peeing your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis

Nightjar echoed her battle cry and the two youths engaged in what could only be called a slap fight, their forelimbs flailing at one another. Wildfire leaned her face away, instinctively trying to keep it out of reach of her brother's large, clumsy paws. All the while, she giggled and snorted. It was especially funny to her whenever the two of them managed to slap one another an incidental high five, their soft, leathery paw pads clapping together in perfect unison. Patty cake, patty cake...

The attention span of the young was limited, so eventually Wildfire grew weary of the game (right around the time her forelegs grew tired and heavy). "Baba pope!" she bleated, jumping suddenly and clumsily to her feet. She tipped forward, stumbling, her muzzle thrusting toward Nightjar's fuzzy little chest like a blunt sword. She face-planted against him, then pushed back and righted herself with a sharp little giggle.

The two were practically nose-to-nose now, so Wildfire seized the moment by lifting a paw and attempting to slap her brother right across the face. Since she was smaller, it would not be the most painful of strikes, yet the point blank range almost guaranteed a hit and she was much too young to exercise anything like restraint.