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another nicks his ear.
the pain is bad, worse for the teary blur of those wings in the air. his ears tell him that the woman is running, running. she has struck and retreated. tugix is free then to swing weighty head toward the bird.
it dives for him, braying a caw.
tugix snarls. blood freshly lines his muzzle from that beak and those talons.
he snaps, grapples with air, forces himself against physics to take.
the beak comes down into that fraying eyelid, and tugix howls an echoing gnash of unadulterated rage, dropping back down to the snow. his legs weave; scarlet drips, steaming.




