Redsand Canyon down and out over the mount

rolls for not-rolling

A grunt from Colin protested the move, followed by a vicegrip that stained his mouth red—and, accompanying the stabbing ache that had her eye twitching in a fleeting wince, a twisted glee shot through Finley. So he could fight—and she was the one to drive him to it, “self-defense” be damned. His skills with his life on the line must have been formidable tenfold.

Her bites snipped at air, peppered gratuitously with sand from the wolves’ fight, as Colin rolled away. Perhaps Finley could cede, his strength proven and her leg throbbing—but pride spurred her for one more blow. Blood flicked onto the sand as Finley surged forward, fangs outstretched for one last grab at Colin’s scruff. If she was quick enough she’d get him before he could rise.