Kintla Flatlands But Death Had Caught You in a Bad Mood

His teeth snagged cartilage, and the tip of his ear tore like ribbons between Daighre’s jaws.
 
It was fleeting.
 
The wound superficial.
 
Their paw—a massive, white, dirty thing—rose to knock him in the jaw, disorienting and dizzying. What quickly followed was the rest of their body weight, started by a paw on his throat, and the other, his back.
 
He fell.
 
His jaws—formerly parted and snarling—snapped shut on empty air, and his side scraped rock and stone. He landed on his back, his spine and tail already bending as he curled in on himself, to protect his stomach, his throat, his undersides. With a back leg outstretched, he kicked at them from below.