Moonspear black holes in my favorite sweaters

hydra is swift, sure, and the silver relentless in her attacks. it is a particularly traumatic game of monkey in the middle; the wolves remain largely silent, while from the fox slip yowls and the sharp crack of bone. when once more the fox is driven toward her, she moves for the neck. fangs catch her muzzle a moment, scrapping painfully against skin and bone. 

but the girl drives forward, securing a grip just behind the jaw and clenching the tender flesh there, whipping her muzzle upward as she tears through flesh. a scream, shrill and near-deafening, one final desperate snap at her and then the vixen stills, brought finally to an end. the girl holds fast her grip, wanting to ensure the very last traces of life leave the creature; already her tail lashes behind her, a victory banner.