Redsand Canyon days of creation

rollin, sorry bout the delay!

Teeth made contact by ribs—gaunt, unguarded. ’Round Colin twisted for the rebuttal; at the slightest lift of her head he took hold of her muzzle. Another snarl escaped Finley; such grabs had uses her fellow Specialist had no right to bear. (Her own unwarranted use of the tactic, again, scarcely came to mind. Nothing did but the chaos of the fight—as it should be. Her own weariness had just as little right to steal center stage, much as it loomed with every move.)

Back Finley threw her head, seeking release; a flash of brown and in Renard surged for Colin, just as planned. That one would be dealt with in short order, but Finley’s own retort demanded release; sidestepping, hoping to dodge the brunt of Colin’s pushback, she lunged at the black-and-white wolf again, aiming for the center of mass. In the fray there was no time for specific targets—a bite anywhere, anything, would satisfy her.