Porcupine Ridge leshen

they harried him like a pair of ghosts; a devil and an angel come to soul-collect. the tortured behemoth used valiant efforts to rebuke the jarring pair, but none that could eclipse their superior work. stigmata had almost very little to do himself, with his companion's expert flourish, but even her firework blasts that left the snow splashed blood-black in the night, were not enough to completely incapacitate their foe.

wounded twice now - severely - the twelve-tined patriarch brayed into the thick, freckled-white darkness and pitched forward as his front limbs buckled. it swung its massive skull at the honeyed virago, horns slow but no less stalwart. the smokewraith dove in to pierce the proud beast's neck, and upon his retreat received a blooming cut across the top of his shoulder from a lucky toss of the deer's head.

he stood back, panting through his adrenaline before lifting his chin stiffly; watching as this third deathblow began to drain their quarry at a newly tripled rate. the stag gurgled and collapsed, strength gone and fight finished. the creature heaved and sputtered weakly, and even still was likely not to be dead before the wolves began their feast.