Bramblepoint cranky curmudgeon

Rannoch charged like a star quarterback, his head and shoulder plowing into Cypress’ sternum and abdomen and knocking him clear off his feet. It prompted a hefty “oof!” from the raven as all of the air rushed from his lungs — and it was fortunate he hadn’t eaten recently, because the move could’ve easily doubled as the lupine version of the Heimlich maneuver. He didn’t struggle when Rannoch swept in to pin him. He merely lay there on his back, tongue lolling joyously from the scarred left corner of his mouth, and the way it hid the heavy scarring there lent Cypress the illusion of being a happy, healthy, unsullied young wolf just goofing around with his brother. It would be hard for any bystander to equate this wolf with the wolf who had lingered at Moonspear’s borders in the dead of winter and promised a dark-furred, blue-eyed girl he wouldn’t love her. Feeling almost giddy, he turned his head to try to gnaw lovingly at the forearm that pinned him, then shoved with all four paws in a halfhearted attempt to try to knock Rannoch free.