Ravensblood Forest only a fool would make martyrs from heathens

rolled there as well for a hit!

Renard’s eyes lingered on the tree for a moment longer. “Oh, good,” they said, a wryness in their tone. “Much more effective.” They were lacking in the balance training themselves, but before that could become a potential issue – Renard was not fighting on a tree branch without dire cause, thank you very much – Donovan jumped back down to the forest floor, the thud of a more than four-foot drop plus the bulk falling that distance more than sufficient reason to stop admiring the scenery.

This was a good thing, too, because no sooner had Renard turned their attention to the other wolfdog then Donovan was coming right after them, teeth bared –

Unlike their last unfortunate “spar” (if it could even rightfully be called that), they were prepared. They spun to the side just in time to avoid what could have been a nip or a bite and turned back, teeth bared to snap against Donovan’s shoulder – like they had been doing every time lately, more as a test, sure, but it would be a smart idea to revisit that after this –

– their fangs met fur, and then flesh, scraping through the skin there. Not that Renard was a believer in the if it’s not broke don’t fix it school of thought, but maybe this tactic kept some merit.

Drawing back, they returned the smirk with one of their own. “I guess I’m not opposed.”