The seige on his shoulder succeeded, and in one smooth movement he threw his enemy on his back, legs flailing in the air and teeth still clipping the air wildly. This soul knew nothing of what he was doing, Razekiel was aware. The second his spine hit the sand, what little of the Dahlia stain's technique disappeared and was replaced with pure panic. The sound he'd made -- the cry when Razekiel had closed his jaws on his shoulder -- was so pleasingly painful and sad that it inspired life, motivation, thrill into the coyote. His grin, wild and brutish, parted only to growl and hisses, and the coyote wasted no time to begin thrashing his claws madly at the wolf's chest. Straw-hued eyes gone mad, Razekiel could only then see what he wanted to see: the exposed ribcage of this useless stain on Mother Earth, breathing in the day air. His attacks were messy, random; his claws' accuracy was unnoticed. It could have missed or hit, he didn't know. All he could see was what he desired, the death of this creature, and the image was held before his eyes instead of actual reality.
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