THINGS WERE NOT going well, to say the least. The cat was coming back at him … and he was already ripped greatly on his sides. Beowulf would not give up, though … no, he would fight until death. In fact, dying in the act of saving his queen would be a great honor … except that it left the lynx alive to still come after Nephthys. He tried backing away … though the snow was not helping his footing at all. Grey, slightly blue hued eyes tried to remain focused on her flying body … but it was such a blur at times, and she sure was not stopping for anything. When he thought she was going to strike again, suddenly the wolf he was trying to protect leapt in. A very noble action by the queen, though he could not feel right … could not feel like her loyal warrior if she was the one fighting. With shaking limbs, he rose … and then his mind set was for the fight. The pain no longer mattered … the blood that ran down his legs no longer mattered. It was his goal, now, that the lynx would soon not have the satisfaction of tearing into the flesh of any wolf beside himself.

WITH A PUSH, he ran a few steps them leapt as best he could … and even surprising himself a bit, he made the mark. His jaws clamped fast onto the scruff of the attacking feline, and with all his weight, the male lupine began pulling back. Twisting slightly, though still tightly locked in his grasp, the lynx found her way to his face. Claws began tearing and slicing, producing thin, ribbon like red streams to appear. Most of them went the entire length of his face … from somewhere near an eye down to the snout. Two throughout the carving came dangerously close to the eye, causing him to yelp in surprise. His grip loosened, and she was running. He hoped running away … and as he tried to turn with her and watch, she moved too fast.

HER SANDY FORM circled his, and soon he felt four sets if claws grab into flesh along his back, and razor like teeth grip onto his shoulder. With a sound mixing between a snarl and yelp, he began running crazily like a bull at a rodeo. Just trying to get her off … though as he moved, her claws simply sliced his skin. He was becoming tired, and light headed from a loss of blood. For another minute or so -which seemed an eternity- this continued. Then, for seemingly no reason, her claws came away, and her body removed itself from his own. He heard her large paws padding away through the trees. Beowulf felt horribly weak, though relieved all the same. He had protected his queen and her son. His limbs were shaking, and so he sat. There were long lines from the start of his ribs up to his shoulders, at least twelve short, ripped lines into his back, countless small gashes all over and then several bleeding gashes ripped down his face. A scarlet dripping mess, the snow covering the clearing was now mostly red, especially under him now.

HIS BREATHING WAS rather raspy and almost forced sounding. Quite randomly his thoughts were not in that clearing right then … his thoughts were of a beautiful light grey femme by the name of Firestorm. Her gem like emerald eyes were dazzling as the moon hit them. He was back on Rainbow Cliff, the night she became his mate. At least for a moment. He heard stampeding paws, bringing him back, and for a moment he thought it might be the lynx returning for round two. His hair would have stood on end if it was not so drenched and matted up with blood. Though his vision was blurred with a red sheen, and his nose was rather clogged as well, he was still able to make out that it was Nephthys’ sister. The words spoken he could not really make out so well … they all sounded so distant and unclear. His vision began to go from blurry to fading into black. With no distinct sound or attempt to ask for help, he suddenly fell limp to the ground. The red painted snow met his unconscious body, cushioning the fall. His troubled breathing continued … though it was rather faint …