On his back Luka loses some of his menace. Down here he's a tumble of long limbs screwed into a broad body, if he stretches he's easily the size of a bearskin rug but he's just about as toothless. It's what he'd prefer people think of him.
"You can't have anything nice, can you?" He hisses back, knitting his brow. But the arm that swings a stone fist into her stomach doesn't hesitate and as the air is punched out of her Luka leans up, bashing the thickness of his forehead against hers. They meet with a bony 'whak!' and a hard red pulse rings through both their heads.
He shoves to the side, out from under her, and stands again.