the hills have eyes.

. . .



Cross was more or less oblivious to the lurking dash of mottled orange off to the side. His focus was on the fight. In every twist of muscle and gleam of fang and beat of heart. He was a sober-minded youth, with a mind genetically tilted towards the art of war, so it wasn't too difficult for him. His blast past the violet opponent was quick, but not quite quick enough - he felt the sharp needles of young wolf's teeth land on a hock as it was kicked into the air with his running. But the same momentum tore the leg free and the attack had only landed for a heartbeat. The speed tore the skin, and first blood went to Basilisk. It was curious, Cross had expected it to hurt more. Funny, the actually act of bleeding didn't hurt. If anything it could release the pressure and ache of a bruise. What hurt was just the actual digging in. He'd have to log that little nut away for later.

Even though his foot was free however, he still had an angry he-wolf coming after him. If Cross had an edge on speed, it was only because of his prior momentum and the fact that Basilisk, in turning to the left, was turning the leg that had just been soundly bitten. Cross, was turning left too, however, bringing his frame out of the purple male's direct path. For a split second it looked like they couldn't been mirroring eachother - some strange grey and violet yin-yang sign - but then Cross was closing the distance, going back on the offensive.

His target was not a leg this time, but the other youth's back. Had Basilisk staid where he was when Cross bit his leg, Cross would've been directly behind him. As it was now however, Cross's quick turn meant he was coming up on the purple male's left broadside. There were always variables and things were moving pretty quickly for the yearlings, but Cross's plan was to spring forward - going up onto well planted hind legs to grasp for the purple male's form with his teeth. The skin just around the top of the ribcage was especially sensitive and ticklish - a bite there, even one that didn't go very deep, would not be a whole lot of fun. So lot as Cross was quick enough, his chest would also end up ramming into the other's side, not only helping to cement the white lad's attack but also protecting his vitals and throat. With ears pinned and claws scratching for a secure hold, he was prepared to take his opponent down a second time.



. . .