The Heartwood Take the oxygen straight out of my own chest.

The stranger's reaction served to fuel Revui, feeding him as kindling might feed a fire. He was tempted closer despite the snarling of the stranger's face and the posturing, the noise. It took a moment for him to recognize that the stranger was at a slight disadvantage: he was missing an eye. The scar took up most of his broad face and was quite impressive for its ugliness. No words were exchanged betwixt the two beasts—but there was an electricity, a growing tension that no amount of posturing could curtail. The pale wolf moved defensively, favoring his wounded side a little bit more, and made a subtle move to protect their own throat.

Revui's bristling mirrored the white bear of a man; he thought of Vengeance back at the forest, and likened this creature to the giant. It was like staring down the leader's own ghost, or perhaps his soul—and if Revui was ever very thoughtful he might've found that notion charming, maybe amusing. It flickered in and out of his mental periphery too quickly to matter, though. Rather than fixate on those similarities of sizes and attitudes, the boy was intrigued by the thought of bloodshed. How easy it would be to turn that pale coat red! To rend muscle from those old bones, and glut himself to good health!

There had been enough warning, enough of a stand-still between them (momentary though it had been); Revui took the initiative and lunged first, going straight for the stranger's remaining eye—then side-stepped with expert skill, anticipating how the rival warrior might react, and sought to grapple with the opposite side, the junction of neck-to-shoulder.