Moonspear fear is the hand that pulls your strings

His actions were working out better in his favor than he could have ever anticipated. Even while the boy had more youth to him than Dirge, no doubt experience from a multitude of family members, his actions were akin to hammer through glass than piercing strikes. He was easy to guide, easy to predict, and despite those two things Dirge did not let arrogance blind him entirely. It would breed a certain state of complatency and his downfall would surely be therein.

He picked up on the frustration that was beginning to mount when he proved that he could not be corralled efficiently and it was there that he continued to jab, only to dance away when things became too hairy. It may have only been a spar, but that didn't mean their teeth wouldn't hurt any less, especially if it were tender flesh seized. He favored keeping his ears and what he could of his thick coat, though some sacrifices to it were made. It did little to slow his opponent and the distinct snap-snap-snap! he tuned out—but he heard the angry roar to follow in its wake.

With the boy to close in fast, Dirge did the one thing he could think to do: he moved to butt heads with the coming maw.