Arrow Lake good evening, clarice

The child simply would not shut his muzzle. Lecter fully intended to shut it for him, perhaps permanently. As his attack was dodged, the shaman dug his calloused paws into the earth, halting himself from sailing past the other and taking the brunt of teeth to his unprotected back or spine. He pivoted, a scant moment before long white fangs sliced through blood-encrusted pelt into flesh below.

His jaw tightening, choking back the involuntary cry of pain that threatened to rise, Lecter set himself and attempted to wrench away from the other. At the same time, his own muzzle parted in a bloodthirsty snarl, snaking toward the juncture of neck and shoulder upon his opponent; a slash given there would be agonizing. It was pure momentary heat that lent the old madman his strength; inexperienced as the pup was, he had the advantage of speed and youth on his side.

But Lecter did not intend to lose this skirmish.