Hushed Willows panacea

When her companion catches the beast by the neck, Antha knows it's over. She latches onto one of the hind legs and pulls, taking the force out of any further attacks with the pressure she puts on the limb. It seems like only a few moments before the tension slackens, and the cat starts to falter into death throes. The witch releases her hold as the creature falls, tossing her head back to join in the victory howl. Blood streaks her, a patchwork scarf draped around her neck and sloppily across the shoulders, but she pays it no more attention than the gash burning at the back of her thigh or the claw marks carved into her flank. Instead, she draws up alongside her companion as the call dies away, sniffing briefly at his wound and then, if allowed, starting to clean it; a light and idle gesture more than true dedication to the task, the furthering of a bond forged in the heat of battle.