Don't Dance

Whatever it is that has gathered his attention--the rustling and low growling and snarling of some other feral beast-- he did not expect it to be followed by the hissed voice of a girl. His broken gait smooths somewhat quickly, for despite his exterior--crispy, harsh, a snarling and angry little tank of a man-- he is, above all, a knight. And knights rescue those in distress, be they damsels or other knights. He barrels forward, thick limbs and stocky, heavy little body bursting through the foliage and brambles with every intent of grasping the wolverine from behind to whip his head sharply from side to side, worrying the beady-eyed beast against the stone, hoping to bash it's lil' skull against the stone, against the sharp side of the sudden drop. It is a hope that this is managed--after all, he doesn't know exactly what it is he's racing towards, initially.
But it doesn't stop him, nor does he hesitate. He simply has already decided that whatever it is, he will fight it, and he will win. There is, in his case, no other option.

It doesn't occur to him that his momentum may also carry him right over the edge, but luckily the drop is not so harsh that he'll be injured if he falls--perhaps the wind knocked from him, but that is nothing new in his case. In that case, it'll simply bring him closer to the damsel in distress which would, perhaps, help him batter understand the situation they're in. "You, go." Go where? Perhaps further down the ravine. Oh, what? There were TWO now? Oh, no--a girl. Another girl. Two girls, one beast.

Slay the beast. There is no question now, he must slay it. Fire and brimstone clinging to his pelt, he assumes his initial plan-- run towards it, grab it, beat the shit out of it, win.