Lion Head Mesa a-weema-weh

Her cry was a bell pealing on the wind- and for a moment Virtute was distracted. He thought for a fleeting moment that his ward was begging him to stop, and spare the wolf's life- but when he saw that her terrified gaze was instead directed at the canine who'd come to claim her, he found pride swelled within his chest, and urged him forward in his onslaught.

With his heavy mitts, he was able to grab the male, and kick with the dagger-clad hind feet, biting down into the thick, earthy fur. He raised his head to find a better grip, and was struck by a snap that sliced through the fur and skin along his hard jawline, causing him to snarl. The wolf's jaws worked instinctively, which told the cat that he wasn't in control of himself. Virtute had the upper hand from the beginning, and save for the wolf's surprising second wind, he'd been the inevitable winner. 

He used his size and strength to haul his adversary toward where he knew the slope fell steep, and the jagged stones along its slope were teeth that would saw through bone and skin. With the wolf's strength sapping with the blood that ran from his flesh and along the slate, it became easier for the panther to wrestle him toward the drop. He felt his own muscles ache, and felt the sting of tearing flesh as the wolf snapped at him, landing several painful bites in one particular spot on his shoulder. Virtute was done with this- he loathed that he had lost blood to the wolf, and now sought to rid himself of the nuisance altogether. He put an extraordinary burst of strength into forcing the wolf toward the drop- and would allow gravity to wrench the wolf from his grip.