Bonesplinter Ravine You've been out all night

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shit shit shit shit

with each beat of her heart the dog put power into her legs, struggling against the peculiar anatomy of her breathing canals. yet, the distance between she and those who, for reasons she'd decided to ponder later, made of her a quarry and victim, grew no larger.

diesel was no coward. she was a child of violence, muzzled and corrected at an early age, still turned feral by life beyond the reach of her masters. she sought the snapping of teeth and roars of anger as if they were the grandest of songs, and all the training beneath the tutelage of the imperator of mereo only made of her a more cocksure fighter - and still she knew this would be nothing like the spars with her brothers-in-arms nor the brawls of her youth. 

she was made puplike and dwarfish before the might of the white wolf.

she hated herself for that. for the natural order of things, which put her cousins above herself in the food chain. a proud thought struck her, that she should turn and face those that snapped at her heels. even so, in the finely crushed purée of her brain she knew that would make of her an open-throated corpse, to join the other remains which crunched and snapped beneath her feet (and twice as loud beneath the paws of her pursuers).

and so it was that she was mid-leap, the exit to the ravine wide and inviting before her eyes, when the scarfaced wolf-bitch's teeth found her left hindleg, and outstretched she fell into the snow, in a way that knocked the air out her lungs.

and then the wolf was upon her.

diesel fought, of course. with mixed desperation and indignatious rage she bit and clawed and pushed, yet the bulk of the beast seemed impervious. in her attempts to protect her neck, her vitals, she only left the true target unguarded. when scarface's jaws clamped down on her cheek from the fleshy inside and the loose outside, the bitch nearly blacked out with pain.

and that was even before she began to tear.

the agony she felt diesel would remember for the remainder of her days, and would miss the draping flesh of her jowls and those two morals dug out, thinking herself more beautiful once, before her yellowed teeth gleamed from an open cheek.

[...]

the warchief's countenance was red by the end of it, her victim's glistening dark and sticky with blood. diesel rasped, and blood bubbled forth from her ruined face.

the loose flesh which decorated her muzzle, the left side of it at least, was torn off, revealing the row of redwash bottom teeth, two of which were now missing. the dog could not tell where warm blood began and searing pain ended, each pump trough her body making her face throb worse than the last.

her eyes were misty, wet.

"flees." it was a brooklike and incomprehensible sound, what her voice was reduced to. "flees." she repeated, but nothing followed the plea, for the speaker herself was no longer able to think clear enough to come up with her terms of surrender.

the blood made a serrated, crimson halo about her head.