Vark lashed out with his hind legs, sending the smaller pesky coyote tumbling away, and he regained his feet quickly, and twisted his head around, trying to find the older coyote. After a moment, a small gust of wind notified him of her position, and he made out the blur of her outline. Vark paced forward, his hackled raised, and his lips drwe back in a blood curdling snarl. Adrenaline coursed through his vain, and his claw dug deep gouges where he stood, and his frame quivered with rage and blood lust. But he hung back, looking for an opening. The movements of his opponent were hard to decipher, and she was obviously a very experienced fighter. A more calm Vark would have realised he was in over his head, but Vark's head was full of images of violence and blood. Vark's eyes were not helping. Detail to movement was missed, and Vark was still getting used to his blindness. In frustation, he barked and dove forwards, his powerful jaws snapping forward for the coyotes legs, his large pawful of claws scything up at her hindquarter, along her left side.
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