Broken Antler Fen last smoke before the snowstorm

As rough and loud as ever, the razorbacked she-wolf barrelled right into Tusk's side, becoming tangled in his damp limbs and rattling her inner compass in the process.

She struck out blindly with her teeth, trying to deflect what she knew was coming - the sting of leopard fangs tagging her hide - and she wanted none of it. Quill's defense tactics were not founded on skill - nor were they founded by the elitist intuition she claimed to have - but rather, she attacked with sheer tenacity; the force of her will taking on a presence of its own as she faced her larger, more talented sibling.

Being raised the sole female in a litter of four contenders had made for a zealous, competitive bitch, and one whose only true talent was the ability to scrap longer and often with more force than necessary; skills imperative to surviving (typically) multiple opponents. The fact that it was just Tusk didn't make any difference to Quill. Oh, she'd treat his flesh with the same playful respect they all treated each other with, but she was not likely to be kind about it.

Recovering from her initial clash with the helmeted menace, she leaped back and began to growl-bark, and play-bow, to goad Tusk forward and into making a mistake, while making a fatal one of own:

not knowing there was a Thorn afoot.