Redsand Canyon down and out over the mount

Colin and Finley collide, reminiscent of a spindly vintage car in a fender bender with a more stocky and reliable model. His teeth grate; he sees stars, but she is winded. The sound of air being slammed out of someone wasn't one so easily forgotten.

Already, she's lashing back with a bite. Her teeth connect with his left arm. There isn't much fat there to cushion the blow, and the sensation of a vice this close to the complex of veins, muscle, and tendon, it makes his heart buck. The pain is dull and her grip is light, but he is now trapped, a dog worrying at its toy bone. 

He twists away as much as he can under her grasp and snaps at her shoulder. It is the most he can do under such cramped quarters, and he hopes to tear himself away from her teeth with his own. If he made contact, he would bite down firmly, just enough to draw blood.