Sequoia Coast you're tearing me apart, lisa

the funny thing about running your mouth was that you generally had to be fast enough to catch up to it. Lycaon, though boasting physical heft and maturity as an advantage against serious injury, didn’t have the mental endurance to know when to "picK yoUr bAtTleS".

for some, it was a lesson that had to be learned over time and through experience. 

when the Grimnismal beta launched his missile of sexist denigration, the furthest extent of his planning was who his targets were and the velocity at which said missile would make impact. he was pretty accurate about the impact. he did not lay the fallout in his provisions, though—much less a diagram of his exit strategy when the antagonized hens/chicks hiked up their feathers and set to the civic task of castrating him. this mutual hostility could not be redeemed with a heart-to-heart with whomever heda was. no, he’d unbalanced social justice in their eyes, and they took it upon themselves to right it. 

the advisory from Prince set Lycaon’s head at an incredulous cant, but he only had time to respond with: ”is that so––” before Furi displaced him with the canine equivalent of the business-end of a splintery 2x4. 

her aim was true and her teeth successfully found purchase on the nape of his neck, eliciting a surprised yelp from the boy. he recoiled like a sidewinder into a reflexively defensive lurch, recovering from the collision with a bit of floundering as Furi used his head as a teething ring. he reeled about, snarling, firmly scruffed like a irrepressible kitten. the angle she had wrestled him into afforded his head little motility, but he strived mightily to seize her ear with his teeth in an effort to lever her clenched fangs off his merchandise. amidst the clash, the cheeky, entirely uncivilized juvenile still managed to grunt: ”you only want me for my body!!”

there was a dervish of white fur and slobber flying. Furi was a wispy thing, and her onset wasn’t as robust as the spite in her head—she managed to slough fistfuls of fur from the subject of her ire, and slice a gash on his gums as he reached around to wrestle free, teeth bared. blood limned his gums.

not soon after he attempted to end the sable assailant’s strafe upon his assets, a third player entered the game. this was a wolf he was slightly more evenly matched against, and Lycaon was smart enough to sense that they were taking this far more seriously than he was. moreover, after the initial mushrooming of adrenalin had dissipated, and his impulse for a reaction was satisfied by the violent release of tense energy, the beta was ready to fold up and run to tell Wylla allllllll about the delicate sensibilities of their neighbors. he just needed to troubleshoot his exit strategy...

a skirting flourish of cream drew his eye and Lycaon flinched away from the incoming slug of Artaax’s southpaw—though his tongue had rumpled to make room for flashed teeth so any fantasies running wild about prying it from his oral cavity would go ultimately unfulfilled. alternately, if the drageda wolf continued in his efforts at fretting his beauteous face, Lycaon would rear up and jaw-spar with the paladin, his upper canine chipping against the hard enamel of Artaax’s own. the shard that broke off would be swallowed with blood that thinly streamed into his throat.

with Arrille now under the wardship of the largest and most unimpressed male in the party, Lycaon had no vested interest in being pitted against a third or fourth ankle-biter. not currently hindered by any substantial weight, he ducked his head (at the cost of losing a chunk of fur as a result) and attempted to deliver a bucking push against Furi and her white knight. if successful, his vulnerable bits would be inaccessible to their direct range of motion and he would be free to make his bolt for freedom.