Gilded Bay it's a battle cry, it's a symphony

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Twisting sharply, Szymon avoided the strike of Ragna’s fangs — but only just. She was fast — damnably fast, he appraised with a wary glint of his golden eyes — and a tuft of his salt-crusted fur dappled her lips and fell to the earth between them like a white glove of challenge upon a castle bridge. The air whooshed from his lungs in a rush as he recovered from her strike. His hindquarters swiveled automatically and bunched beneath him; he moved low to the ground with his tattered ears pinned firmly to his skull and his tail held stiffly behind him as a balance as he whipped around with curling lips and gleaming fangs. At the last moment he remembered that they were only sparring and pulled his punch, a terrible, rumbling growl leaping rapaciously from his gaping jaws as he twisted his skull and mouthed at the nape of her neck — enough to bruise despite his efforts to be gentle, but the welts that he raised would fade before the morrow.

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