Overture Downs Let's raise some hell, shall we?

there is an old understanding about the world: dog hates cat, cat hates dog. perhaps somewhere in every cat lingers the genetic memory of an ancestor getting torn to shreds by a berserk pack of hounds; and in perhaps every dog, an old and distant memory of pups purloined and fed to mewling kittens.

indra didn’t have time to contemplate the divisive discord between the two species; in fluid, athletic strides no dog could ever rival, the cat was upon her.

she had hoped nunataq had run but dimly, she was aware that to believe the girl would back down was terrible folly. indra only had time to balk before the shadow that crossed her followed with the impact of fangs and claws; she was bowled clean over by the attack.

she wasn’t aware of the shriek that loosened from her mouth; it wasn’t a scream of terror so much as a curdling cry of defiance — a mother’s rarely uttered, yet terrible to witness, warcry.

she would be overpowered in a matter of seconds but she would not make those seconds pass in vain. snarling, Indra lunged for one of the paws that came after her: if she got it, she would hold it — begging internally that nunataq would have the good sense to flee before the cat made short work of them.

under the concussive beat of strikes and the raking arc of claws, indra became aware of a quiet but ominous warmth seeping her pelt. the surge of adrenaline in her was enough to temporarily mitigate the pain — but distantly she was aware of her body’s protests, and the grim collection of wounds that was fast appearing.