Sword

There's joy in him as he lunges for her, there's delight in the swipes he makes—all wild and reckless. Each she meets with the flat of her blade. Quick as he is in this form, the best she can do is fend him off, and it isn't long before her arm aches, her shoulder, her back, her tired, tired soul. A faltering guard leaves her open: his claws tear open her cheek. The smell of blood almost overrides the pain; her nostrils flare, she tastes copper; a deep, primal hunger threatens to overwhelm her carefully won control.

Harvesttide