AND HIS NAME IS JOHN CENA

Bringing down the ram had been his first order of business, and that had been difficult enough. They were study beasts, and they could run for what seemed to be an eternity. It baffled him, really. He, like anyone with any experience, had picked a ram injured during the rut, and it should have been way easier. He was a small ram, at least by bighorn standards. In the end, it had been a snagged hoof in a crack that had recently formed in the ground. By the time the ram had gotten the hoof free, Birch had been upon it. He tried to make it quick, but the stupid beast had insisted on struggling and fighting with him. The thing had bled out before he could cleanly dispatch it, leaving him with a mess of a carcass stained crimson. Damn.

Of course, worse yet was the scream of a cougar that echoed from the hills. Ah shit. Hackles bristling, the male did his best to look intimidating. Perhaps if he looked like a slavering monster, hungry for fresh sheep, it would just go away. As the tawny feline slunk closer, powerful limbs drawing it down the slope of the hill that his quarry had just been trying to ascend, he knew he was wrong. The ridged flanks and wild eyes spoke of a starved animal, one that wasn't going down easy. Birch circled around the carcass, putting it behind him and the cat in front of himself with no barriers between them.

**fight starts here**

He flattened his ears tight against his skull in preparation, tail tucking between his legs to protect his soft bits. A growl rumbled in his chest, lips peeling back to reveal glistening fangs. Evergreen gaze narrowed, daring not lose an eye to this mangy cat. He squared his feet under himself, and bent his knees. The stance was becoming familiar, the more he used it. Toes flexed so his claws could sink into the soil, gripping the cool dirt beneath his paws. Cranium would lower over his throat, chin tucking against his chest to better defend his throat. Shoulders rolled forward, bunching fat and fur around his neck to protect the vulnerable area. He wasn't giving this ram up, he had plans for it. Food for his pack, and some neat things to trade.

He stood deadly still as the cat continued to stalk forward, patchy hide rippling with the musculature underneath. Golden eyes met green, waiting for the right moment to strike. A game of intimidation, both parties eager for the other to flee. A steady growl built in the bowels of Birch's deep chest, tongue sliding from his jaws to wet his fangs. Once there was just half a foot between them, all but shoulder to shoulder (Birch's left to its right), the cat struck. Quick reflexes had the wolf leap away from the outstretched claws, and the quick dodge to the right earned him only a set of light scratches across his left shoulder. They stung, but he didn't feel mortally wounded. That's the important part. He landed on his four paws, and bent his knees to absorb the impact. He wasn't about to wait for another assault, and rushed back to where the cat was about to grab one of his ram's feet to drag it off.

Jaws parted, he leaped over the body of the dead ram with front paws outstretched. The way the cat was arranged, Birch was set to bowl it over if his forepaws hit it on the left shoulder where he was aiming. Unfortunately, the wily beast was smarter than he was willing to give credit for. It ducked. What a simple tactic, and yet so effective! He sailed right over its head, and landed on the other side, paws skidding through the soil. The impact jarred him, and his mouth snapped shut hard enough to rattle his brain. Shake it off, Birch. Shake it off. the male chided himself.

Spinning around, he charged the cat again. The average cougar is about 35" at the withers, and this one was no exception. That left a major advantage for Birch to cash in on. Unfortunately, the upper hand provided by bulk didn't account for idiocy. He rushed in with wild abandon, and left a good portion of his chest wide open. The cat took advantage, right forepaw reaching out in a serpent quick strike, and there were suddenly four thick gashes, neatly spaced, stretching from the outside, upper edge of his left shoulder to the middle of his chest. A yelp tore itself from his throat at the assault- that hurt way more than the first set! Blood began to weep furiously from the wounds. Shit!

Biting back the urge to scream, he kept on his warpath, and grabbed hold of the cat's paw as it retracted from his personal space. He could play the maim game, too! Latching onto the offending limb with all of his might, he shook his head back and forth. Sadly, his grip was complete trash, and the cat got the leverage to yank its forearm out of his mouth by planting its other three paws and yanking backwards with all of its might. On the bright side, the furious stream of red down its wrist to its paw matched the steady flow of blood down his chest. The pair were well matched, both in fighting spirit and in wounds. He growled again, fighting through his pain to advance again. This was his sheep, not hers!

The same paw (miracle of miracles!) smashed into the side of his head. Thankfully, he'd done enough damage to the tendons of the limb that it couldn't extend its claws very well, and the score of its claws through the thin flesh of his forehead (on the left side, just above and behind the left eye) didn't do as much damage as they should have. Instead of attacking the forearm again, Birch went for the space where the forelimb connected to the chest. In such close quarters (half a foot, probably less), it was almost too easy. Fangs sunk into the corded muscle of the armpit, but he didn't have a good angle. The cat used both of its forelimbs to swat at him now, disinterested in killing him, and now eager to escape. Knocked off balance by the repeated blows to the head, he stumbled a few steps backwards. No way was he losing an eye, not this young!

By the time he dared to open his eyes again, the cat was halfway up the hill it had come down from. A trail of blood followed behind it, and he almost felt bad for a second. No, that's bullshit. That cat tried to steal his stuff! He hoped it died from infection, so he could trade its body parts for neat stuff. Asshole.

Finally, he was free to whimper a little. And whimper he did, feeling the burn of his wounds. Especially those deep ones on his chest. It ached all the way in his lungs from the bruise that was already forming around the bloody gashes. Alone, and free of judgement, he let himself shed a few tears. Grabbing the ram by the back of its neck, he let himself continue to whimper and whine while he carried his hard earned prize back home to Kesali. They'd better appreciate him for this one!

-exit Birch-

"speech"