Herbalists' Cache wind lance

his shoulder drives against her teeth with a brutal force, straining her jaw. it aches like hell and she lets it—she would grind her bones to dust before she yielded to him. 

she feels his teeth against her neck, sinking, tearing, and fuck if it doesn’t white out her vision for a brief moment. pain blooms like wildfire, but she twists, hard, forcing her body against his, pushes into him. she does not focus on the bite. does not think about the heat of his blood in her mouth or the sharp, slicing ache in her throat— 

she focuses on the cliff.

yes, the mountain! make him think about his footing. about the thousand-foot drop beneath him. anything but her, if she could make it so.

so she shoves. viciously, with every ounce of power in her frame. her teeth still clamp to his shoulder, but she drives him—back, back, back—until his back legs are flirting dangerously with the edge.

her snarls are no longer just angry. they are
calculated.

she drags, pushes, pulls. lose your balance, bastard. she can feel him strain against her, digging in, but she does not stop. blood seeps between her teeth. his or hers, she doesn't care. His grip on her neck wrenches, but she grits through it and drives him still, forcing him to the edge. 

fall. let go or fall.