Fox's Glade i’ll dig her up tonight

Merrit's teeth find purchase with the heathen's face; he clamps, and twists. He is used to the feeling of severing flesh. As a beast of blood, they all must be. Yet there is still something about the act of piercing a wolf and tasting its blood, though so much like a deer's, that sears his throat with bile. Liquid vomit salivates around the corners of his mouth. Even still, Merrit does not let go, until the tear of flesh makes him.

He doesn't know the damage he's done to the other wolf's face. The heathen is far too quick. Before Merrit can rebound and strike again, he feels the sting of teeth against his own face, tearing across his brow and clicking along the length of his cheek. He recoils -- expects the beast to follow -- but something is weighing him down. Merrit blinks through the blood which blurs his vision, and catches sight of white hanging onto the heathen's heel.

Arlette. His pride swells, and his heart for his sister spurs him forward. He feints a strike to the right, and, if it looks like the beast is following, he'll swing back and shoot up from the left instead, to grab the soft flesh of the other wolf's arm, shoulder, or neck, and attempt to jerk him off-kilter and bring him to the ground.