Phoenix Maplewood dark archer, light up another sun

As soon as she fell off of him, Skífa scrambled over and onto all fours. He was breathing heavily, but before he had a chance to catch his breath, the black stranger pummeled all her weight into him again. He staggered back, narrowly avoiding getting pinned against the maple tree. He focused only on fending her off - so as she dove for his foreleg, he bounded sideways.

She still caught him, but not completely. Her jaws clamped down on his right foreleg, but he yanked it away from her before she could break it. She still punctured his skin and muscle, and tore a jagged wound into his leg anyway; and by yanking his leg away from her, he pulled his elbow and strained the muscles in his shoulder. But he was free.

Skífa dashed several yards away from her before pausing to look back, wondering if she was going to chase him. His foreleg was bleeding and his shoulder was throbbing fiercely. His ribs ached. His throat burned. But he was high on adrenaline and endorphins, and if survival was on the line, it didn't matter if he was injured. He was still going to run. (Later, when this was all over, he was going to be limping for a good while).

Skífa half-grimaced, half-smiled and spat at the ground. He dropped his head low and waited to see what she would do. If she made any move toward him, he would dash off again; but if she didn't, he'd stay stock still and watch her.