Duskfire Glacier [m] seremoni

She struck out; he let her, tongue lapping at the blood that dripped from the shallow scrapes on his muzzle. He pressed forward, still questing, stubbornly ignoring her appraisal of his wound. The pain of it was immaterial in this moment. Or perhaps it was something outside of himself. Something he carried with him like an ankle weight, that he would only be made stronger for when it came time to shed. With a quiet huff of laughter, he picked up his pace, loping after her up the steeper inclines, his claws digging in where his weight threatened to make him slide. He moved like a mountaineer when he hit his stride, doggedly seeking to press his muzzle into her flank.

They danced in this way, the bounty hunter in pursuit like a Komodo dragon that had already struck poison into his prey.