sinking + roman

"Stay put, nosebleed!" angrily nickered Leroy, once more on top in this rhubarb. The hound had spent many years as brute, king over others because of his violence, he didn’t need some flutter bum fighting back. If the scuffle went on any longer, something not good could happen to his foot; best to finish this quickly. Attempting to pin the already-flattened Roman to the ground, he’d lean over to nab the unequipped brand, returning his head so that the tip of his wet nose almost touched the apex of the Shiba’s snout, his amber eyes glaring right into the pooch’s. The gaze did not offer malice, or chaos - its state was almost dolorous. Almost.

This time, the blade had to connect properly, it just fucking had to. His stay with the Ascendants was long over, and he needed to go home. Okay. Aiming for the same location, he tried swinging downwards, this time with more force, as if to ensure results.