By now the grey goose of a boy was naught but a flurry of feathers; some bloody, and some flying away from the wound in his wing as he crawled out from the wide space between Volterras front and back legs. His attack had seemingly been a success even though he had now quite managed to bite into the exact organ he was aiming for. Proud, was he, the halfling who battled the Indomitable, and managed to make him howl and skip away with terror!
This brought the smallest of smiled to the boy's face despite the roaring collection of pain that ranged from his wing to his dock. He'd escaped from under the monster, a man who was perhaps three times his size in both weight and even height. While he hadn't left him in any kind of mess like Volterra had done to him, there was much to be proud of. Perhaps one day he could attack with that kind of damage, tolerate that kind of pain, and master any move in the book.

Luckily for Pippigrin, his beast of an opponent was not angered by his choice of attack - or rather, he managed to contain it.
Standing to attention, wings held over his barrel at the ready, the guardian listened intently to the black one's word of criticism and instruction. Watch his muscles? what did muscles tell you about an attack? Pippin was quite sure that not evne the gods could anticipate what would happen in battle, though he gave a nod anyway; too fearful of asking the giant to repeat himself to seek clarification. Besides, pretending he understood was something he did every day.

While it grew increasingly difficult to walk, the blood trailing from his wing becoming somewhat distracting, Pippin attempted to keep his body low as he traced his way around the mammoth in preparation for an attack. Watch his muscles, just like he said.
Eyeing the Sultan's hind end, Pippin soon found it swung his way. Without much warning, a great kick was being sent in his direction, one which he had, in fac,t managed to anticipate to some degree. Escaping from it had been the issue. Stumbling upon an awkward set of stubby legs, the halfling was clipped in the shoulder by one of the sarp, dinner-plate sized hooves owned by his king. A brief cry was uttered, blood was spilt, though still the stag stood tall.

Looking up to the man, waiting for another scold, Pippin decided he'd had quite enough for today.
"I think I should go and see the doctor..." he mumbled, a puddle of blood now pooling at his hooves.