The Heartwood oh, death

It seemed his refusal to turn tail and run had surprised the other wolf--the mere audactity to defend himself when he was caught trespassing... though he scented no pack here. Still, normal circumstances would have had the dark widower bow out on the moral aspect alone, but something in him had snapped--the crimson eyes bore down on him, and he had long grown tired of simply allowing life to swallow him whole.

The blood was copper on his tongue, the scent of it initiating another snarl from the shadowrunner, his mind practically preening at the tautness of his muscles, the need to release his energy and rage.

The stranger rammed against him, pushing him back and forcing the onslaught of his teeth to the other's face to halt and his own muzzle tipping as fangs grazed the top of his snout, breaking skin and bubbling his own blood forth to the air.

He shifted his own hefty bulk then, side-stepping to escape the groping teeth and attack and duck his own head below, looking to scour the juncture of his opponent between neck and shoulder, to grip and push back.