[/html]The scent of blood was weak in the rain, but she knew it was there all the same: the coppery, metallic scent of life and death simultaneously. Did her attacker cry out? She could not tell. She left her smaller blade where she'd slammed it, stuck in his thigh. She continued to swing her less lucky blade, her stolen blade, stabbing wildly, sometimes she felt it nick fur or flesh, but most often it slashed air. The man pulled back, but he was still pinning her legs. There was more pain in her head as she was jerked back further.
Then he grabbed her right wrist, stopping her mindless slashing by cut mildly into his forearm, and also giving her upper body enough weightlessness and leverage that she pulled free one of her legs. With a shrill half-bark, Cassandra whriled around, wretching free her wrist and slashing forward immediately, long, rough blade aimed directly at the wolf's dirty face.
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