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ooc: a) Deep wound to the chest, brought on by his claws and made deeper by her own weight pushed against them; she is now bleeding out. 1) She takes another lunge for his throat/chest while trying sink her claws into the wound already on his shoulder
Searing pain overcame her muzzle. Their muzzles latched into a dangerous kiss with fangs rending through the soft flesh of his snout...the warm essence of his life gracing her tongue in a bleeding trickle to wet her pallet. Her own blood sprang forth, though blow of his claws successful in that she was wounded but less than she could have been had her stance remained idle and dumbstruck. This clash would have ended much too quickly had she forgone her preservation instinct and left herself to suffer the inevitable. But not now…not with life this coursing through her.
Her ascent was to regain strength and bear her weight down, coupled with a strike to his face. Bravery would be mistaken for foolishness for the amount of herself that stood exposed. A skilled warrior would see this without flaw, and take his rite, piercing through the soft flesh with his fangs and calling himself victor. Expectation was her one foresight into the future, her only inkling of what would come to pass. His pressure butted against her own, a damn of muscle hindering the flow of precious rubies. The forced was enough to incite recoil, the she-wolf reared further back, putting her balance to the test as her upper portion leaned away as the blood lusting fangs snapped for her throat. Her balance was not spectacular on dual limbs, but enough instinct had her hobble back to remain upright. It was in that moment she was lost to her ascended high, raised both forelimbs again to strike through him, yet pain overwhelmed, the copper flood stung her nostrils with a sheer intensity to cripple her endeavor. Her breast on fire, she fell away into the mist, plummeting to her back and recoiled to her side.
Time was a luxury, the warning bell of battle still raged in her ears and forced her to stand again. She felt the flood burst from her own dam, staining the air with a marvelous and putrid scent that splayed her lips wide with rage and pumped the never-ending stream of adrenaline through her body. She felt the wound without sight, felt how it burned with each intake of breath, felt how with each exhale more of her essential life drain away. Suffice it that strike was better than a slash to the throat, but it only meant her death would be slow. Her eyes pricked with indignation, anger subsided and was replaced with understanding. Though her body remained rigid, her snarls gave way to disgruntled growls.
The blue eyes of the devil were beautiful in their lust, so passionately absorbed she imagined nothing could detour him from this. A haggard breath pushed the blood from the gashes in her chest though she inhaled deeply the stink of her own demise. Sharp claws tore at the ground in her advance, gnashing teeth bore with a tremendous snarl. Her body was lined to ram him, to take a bite from his chest and see to it a scar would remain. She raised her left foreleg and sought to gasp deeper into the glaring wound.
Word Count: 525
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