Dawnlark Plains don't call [m]e grimgram

Grimalkin moved automatically, throwing his weight onto his hindquarters as he slewed to the side.  "You bite, do you?" he teased her, watching as she darted toward him and then darted away.  He wasn't as quick as he had been at her age, but he could still give as well as he got.  No arthritis to speak of, and no hunting injuries.  Being a middle-of-the-road kind of guy got boring sometimes, but it also meant that you didn't really concern yourself with petty dominance spars.

Hoping to impress her without breaking a hip sweat (hell, he wasn't that old!) Ramskull recovered neatly from her lunge and made one of his own, feinting left before sweeping right to try to land a nip on the tasty looking curve of her thigh where the fur grew a bit longer.  He did feel like playing, and though this wasn't his game of choice (he wanted to play the kind of games you play with the lights off, if you know what I mean) he'd settle for it.  He didn't know he was in the process of a working interview, not that it would've changed his actions.

"Oh, I'll catch you, sweetheart," he growled at her, readying himself for her retaliation, his tone teasing instead of sinister.  "Don't worry about that."