Twisted Slough i wish you'd die in the mire

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: mild maiming

Yelped curses split his composure, sending his head tossing back and away from snapping jaws. There was a pang of humiliation where his pride should've blossomed, breaking his falsified morals like a twig underfoot. His throat stung as bitter wounds leaked over his fur, painting a once dark visage, crimson and hateful. A flailing leg swiped past his nose, then back again, this time snatched up between Magpie's own itching teeth. The ease in which he bit down was like a stone through water, slicing through twitching tissue, so sweet and tender against his tongue.

He eased up on the limb, halted only momentarily by the cries of its owner, then snapped down again, applying more pressure than before. There was a nauseating pop, followed by the minor marring of pelt and flesh, until eventually Magpie deemed it enough. He dropped the leg from his maw, letting it curl limp to Cormorant's belly with a disappointed huff. His fur settled down his spine, the adrenaline now sapped from him, leaving only disgust and dissatisfaction. C'mon worm, get up. A mixture of blood and drool pooled from the corners of his muzzle like a festering wound, flooding his senses with only the scent of bitter iron — pushing out Cormorant's previous comforting aroma. You wanted up so badly, so let's see it. Let's see how far you get.