Moonspear fear is the hand that pulls your strings

The boy held his ground as Dirge charged forward, and it was an impressive display. He had always known packs to be a constant test of mettle and saw this as no different; to give in here would be tantamount to damning himself to some lower echelon, as though he were incapable of defending or proving himself. But he was far from the sort to be that way, meeting every snap with another of his own. His offense traded for defense unconsciously as they put on their show, pulling limbs and hide away clean where he could in order to see if there was some distinct pattern at hand.

But where anger had come forward, amusement tore away. He was no fighter by trade, but he could hold his own, and that was exactly what he planned to do. It was easy to seem to follow when he intended to lead, beginning to aim his snaps to suggest where the boy should go—for a time, perhaps even to mirror him, almost mockingly. His tail arched high as his confidence built, and he aimed a sure snap at the passing hocks of the silvery leviathan.