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

Wounds: Chest gouge.

Things happened quickly, as was common for fights and especially so for brawls between rogues. He felt the satisfying click of his teeth against bone, the tug, the slice, the taste of the blood on his lips. The counter-move came swift and powerful; something collided with his chest and drove him back, nearly off of his feet. A burning pain as his skin ripped, igniting something left long dormant during his days in the pit: an intensity previously muted, now unbound.

With a roar the boy drove himself forward with enough momentum to close the distance again, but this time he wasn't using the tactics his family had taught him. He was doing what came naturally, letting his body react, primal and a touch unhinged, as he snapped his teeth at air, at fur, at flesh if possible, eager for another bite even though he was putting himself at dire risk.