Dragoncrest Cliffs We can weep and call it singing

He sprang away when Verx offered an opening, hoping to have done some damage, but realizing that all he'd achieved was a sore mouth from jarring it against the warrior's deltoid. Working his jaw to rid himself of the ache, he tried to take in what Vercingetorix was telling him—the legs were a better target, and that suddenly clicked because duh, his center of gravity was lower and he had an advantage there—but then his opponent was rushing forward and knocked him flat like a bull.

With a sharp intake of breath, Ephraim hit the dirt on his side and flinched instinctively, covering his belly with all four legs in fetal position. His narrow muzzle slung down across his throat and he glared up at Verx, indignant for how easily he'd been bested. It was tempting to give up and admit defeat; he was a sore loser at the best of times. But he found his feet again and readied himself once more, tail lashing. The spot where Vercingetorix had ripped out his hair smarted; it was likely the warrior had grabbed more than just hair after all. He forced himself to focus on something else.

His gaze darted between all of his opponent's feet, searching for the weakest one. There wasn't one. Frustration found a hold on him then and before he knew it he was leaping forward, aiming for the man's left leg with the intention to feint and hit the right one instead, although the signs of this were also obvious to an experienced eye.