Stone Circle the wicker wolf

Swiftlet raged like a wildcat. Twisting and spitting, paws swatting, snapping and growling.  His ire was directed at everything and nothing — such was the chaos of it. Too much had happened to vex him in too short a time. His senses and sensibility were overwhelmed.

Back on land and with the hornets gone, he had a chance to calm and to take stock of matters. First, he levelled a severe stare at the strange wolf who had aided him (she had scruffed him! the nerve!). But he presented little of a threatening image. Swift looked like a drowned rat, but more specifically like a drowned rat that had been beaten with a branch. His fur was dirty and wet and flung in every direction. One eye was partially swelled shut, and the bridge of his snout had ballooned. From the corner his mouth lolled his tongue — also puffed.

He sat there, ears flat and his tail still curled tightly beneath him, silent and scowling and still staring.