Duskfire Glacier interference

faust lunged the moment his paws found purchase, muscles coiling as he surged upward. the cold bit at his exposed flank where blackfell’s teeth had grazed, but he ignored it—pain was a fleeting thing.
his jaws snapped toward @Blackfell’s nape, seeking hold, his weight thrown forward to drive him back. the ground beneath them was treacherous, slick with ice and churned snow, but faust pressed on, relentless, testing the strength of the man before him.

blackfell's eyes flash with a predatory gleam as faust's jaws snap toward his nape. instinctively, he ducks his head, but faust still takes hold; enough to drive him back.
the icy ground shifts beneath them, each movement a calculated risk. blackfell pivots on his hind legs, muscles coiling, tearing himself free of his fleeting grasp.
he lunges to the side, aiming to flank faust.
with a swift, forceful motion, he drives his shoulder toward faust's ribs, seeking to unbalance him.

faust barely has time to brace before blackfell’s shoulder crashes into his ribs. the force sends a jolt through his frame, his paws skidding over the churned ice beneath them.
his body twists with the impact, refusing to be thrown completely. instead, he shifts his weight, rolling with the motion, snapping his jaws toward blackfell’s exposed side. teeth flash, seeking to clip flesh—not to wound, but to remind. to press. to challenge.

blackfell feels the shift, the way faust moves with the force instead of against it. smart. adaptable.
teeth snap for his side, a sharp graze against thick fur, but blackfell does not yield. he twists sharply, bracing against the ice, muscles coiling tight beneath his pelt.
then he strikes.
his head lowers, ramming forward with the full weight of him, seeking to drive faust back, force him onto unstable footing. jaws part, a flash of ivory, a low growl curling from his throat.
press harder.

faust meets the force head-on, bracing, but the impact still rocks through him. his paws scrape against the ice, seeking purchase as blackfell drives forward. the growl in his throat deepens, raw and guttural.
he does not give. does not falter.
with a sharp twist of his shoulders, he shifts, using the momentum to angle himself to the side, aiming to throw blackfell off his center. his teeth snap, seeking purchase at the thick fur of blackfell’s ruff, a challenge burned into every motion.

blackfell snarls, feeling the shift beneath him, the sudden change in momentum as faust moves to counter. the bite is expected—welcomed—and as teeth graze through the thick fur of his ruff, he drives his weight down.
his paws dig deep, claws scraping ice and earth, refusing to be thrown so easily. he twists, using the angle to his advantage, letting faust pull him in only to turn sharply, seeking to hook a leg behind his cousin’s and drive him to the ground.
"you do not move me so easily, boy!" verbal warfare and a booming laugh, calling into play the seniority of the onyx man.
his voice a low rasp, punctuated by the snap of his jaws toward faust’s shoulder.

faust snarls, a sound rough with amusement and exertion as blackfell throws his weight against him. the impact sends a jolt through his frame, but he does not crumble.
his cousin’s voice booms in his ears, taunting, challenging, and faust meets it with bared teeth. he does not let blackfell’s size overwhelm him—does not let the hook of his leg send him sprawling without resistance.
he braces, twisting sharply against the force, using the momentum to push back, his shoulder shoving into blackfell’s chest in retaliation. the snap of teeth grazes his flesh, a sharp sting against his thick pelt, but he does not yield.
instead, he laughs, breathless and rough. not yet.

blackfell snarls, sharp and eager, feeling faust shove back hard against him. teeth find purchase, grazing flesh, tasting blood—iron sharp on his tongue. the shove sends him skidding back, claws scraping on ice. adrenaline surges, thrilling.
eyes glint, vicious with delight. faust’s laughter draws out his own rough bark, savage amusement meeting challenge. he squares again, muscles coiling tight, shoulders rolling beneath battle-scarred pelt.
good.
grin widens, bloodied teeth flashing.
again.
he lunges once more, relentless.

faust braces against the impact, feeling blackfell's weight crash into him with force. his muscles burn, but he does not yield—will not yield. he snarls, a guttural sound ripped from deep within his chest, shoving forward to meet blackfell’s charge head-on.
their bodies collide, raw power against raw power. faust twists sharply, aiming to hook his shoulder under blackfell’s chest and throw him off balance. teeth snap close to blackfell’s ruff, grazing but not yet biting. the thrill of the fight pulses through him, sharp as winter’s breath.
his breath fogs between them as he huffs a low chuckle, voice rough. again.

blackfell grunts, feeling faust’s shoulder shove hard beneath his chest. balance tips, paws skidding over frozen earth. teeth graze his neck—a threat, a promise.
a fierce, guttural growl answers faust’s chuckle. adrenaline pulses, heady and sharp. muscles bunch, straining as he pivots, shifting weight.
he turns sharply, jaws snapping, aiming for faust’s shoulder—testing strength, resilience.
come on, cousin. do not hold back.
voice taunting, eyes glittering with savage approval.

faust does not yield.
blackfell moves, fast and brutal, but faust meets him—jaws snapping, striking like a blade against armor. his cousin’s teeth find his shoulder, but faust does not flinch; he surges forward instead, driving his weight into blackfell, forcing him to take the full brunt of it.
he does not hold back.
his fangs carve deep, sinking into the thick fur at blackfell’s neck. he tastes blood, iron and heat bursting onto his tongue, fresh and real. a growl rumbles low in his chest, vibrating through his frame as he grips, as he presses.
his strength, his dominance—he makes it known.

blackfell twists violently, muscles rippling with raw force, wrenching himself from faust’s crushing hold. blood streams hot from his throat, spilling across his dark fur. pain fuels him.
jaws snap, ruthless, seizing faust’s shoulder, teeth puncturing thick pelt. he shoves forward, using weight and momentum to force faust down—heavy, brutal, into the snow beneath.
a savage growl tears from his chest as he pins his cousin, asserting dominance with teeth pressed deeper. breath harsh, eyes wild with triumph.
replacing teeth with the crush of paws to hold him down.
yield.

i yield.
the words come slow, begrudging, thick with the taste of iron. faust exhales sharply, muscles tense beneath blackfell’s crushing weight. his shoulder throbs where teeth had found their mark, warmth seeping into the frozen ground.
this was what he wanted. to be pushed, to be forced into something raw, unrelenting—proof that he was not above challenge, that even he could be felled if the right hand struck.
his green eyes burn, smoldering like embers beneath blackfell’s looming shadow. his breath is ragged, yet steady, as his body finally stills beneath his cousin’s claim.
get off me.
not defeat. never that. just the acknowledgment of battle well-fought.

blackfell steps back, teeth stained crimson, gaze sharp yet edged with amusement. he shakes himself briefly, casting a pointed look down at faust, lips curling faintly.
comfortable down there?
voice dry, edged with rough humor. eyes glint warmly beneath the blood and sweat of their clash.
he shifts weight back onto his haunches, watching as faust begins to rise like a war horse from a nap, ears flicking casually.
i can always leave you to rest. the snow suits you.

faust coughs, shaking his head as he rolls onto his paws, stretching his limbs like a man waking from a long sleep. blood mats his shoulder, dull pain humming beneath thick fur, but he grins—wolfish, sharp.
comfortable? i was thinking of staying down a little longer, actually. he snorts, shaking out his coat, sending loose tufts of fur and snow flying. the glacier’s a fine bed. just needs a woman to warm it.
his tail flicks, amusement glinting in his green eyes as he steps forward, shouldering blackfell with easy camaraderie, ignoring the ache in his muscles.
or maybe i’ll just drag you down with me next time, cousin. make it a fair fight. a low chuckle rumbles in his throat, breath curling in the cold air.

blackfell huffs sharply, amused, eyes gleaming in quiet laughter. he bumps shoulders firmly with faust in return, warmth lingering beneath their shared bruises.
ah, but then you'd still lose, cousin.
a dry chuckle escapes, rich and low.
at least you'd have company in defeat.
his teeth flash briefly, smirking, muscles relaxing from battle-readiness.