Sun Mote Copse Don't be shy, mortal man.

The shape of her clarified as he sank in to himself, feeling a spike of adrenaline alongside thinly veiled panic. He did not like to be touched - that much was obvious - and with the activation of his fight, flight or freeze response, Reyes' vision sharpened. A common side-effect when someone was in a conflict situation.

He saw the ripple of her wheaten coat as she recoiled from his defensive snap, the surprise shining in her eyes and something like approval (?). A bead of red trailing from the spot his teeth had caught, flowing as if in slow-motion. The muscles tensing, the shift and coil and spring as Niamh came at him again. Reyes anticipated a hard retaliation (as he was used to the dirty fighting style of Tortugans) and when Niamh lunged he countered efficiently.

Niamh's effort to make him bow down was a sentiment he missed entirely. He fought as if he was a man on death row fighting the executioner before the noose could so much as touch his neck. If he wasn't grappling fang-to-fang with her he was trying to ward her away with snaps, or position himself further from her reach.

This how you treat family? He snipes. A meet and greet, side of ass kickin'? 

His anger tapered as the adrenaline surge lessened, but it was at that point Niamh's grip sought his nape and suddenly he was brought to heel, plunged in to the grass. Reyes remembered the last time he had been positioned in such a way and that's when he really lost it. 

LET ME UP YOU BITCH - GET OFF ME -- !! Kicking, clawing the dirt in to thick clumps of uprooted sod, he was a riot of red while Niamh's body pinned him low. He bucked his hips and tried to backpedal against her (though contact made his skin crawl and his steps less fluid) as he went utterly feral.