Moonspear fear is the hand that pulls your strings

It was not the most perfect aim on his part, and he paid for it.

Stars swam viciously into his vision as they connected and parted, his head feeling as though it did more than smart. It burned. With a couple of steps to stagger in the opposite from the reeling boy, Dirge was genuinely surprised to find a touch of struggle in how best to compose himself. It was slow and defensive; his head tucked to his chest as he himself reeled, mouth gaping into grimace briefly with an indescribable wave of pain.

But no further charge came, he soon saw—and saw the tooth go sailing for the snow. A snort left him, half-amused and half-stunned as it hadn't exactly been in his plans to actually do some damage, but at least it had been somewhat effective. No doubt both of them were going to be smarting for a good bit, and no doubt to Dirge that his head would be sore long before tomorrow morning. If anything, it would remind him why he didn't go picking fights on the regular.

”You put on a good show,” he said with a nosy exhale, composing himself. ”I'd wager you have a set of very good teachers.” This was probably Hydra's doing all along, a pricey payback for him having shoved her face first into a snow bank for all the world to see. The thought alone was enough to make him smile in the present, but it was a faint display. He considered for a moment asking if his face was going to be all right, but that would have been more salt for wounds—the cold gaze told more than words of primal roars would.