Center mass, solid hit- something cracks, maybe a rib? But his pick sinks in deep alongside or between two of them on the wolf's torso- when he wrenches his pickax
away it comes back red- the wheezing, wet, wrong sound that twists out of the still snarling beast he hit something vital. Maybe a lung? Fuck if he knows.

Tony squares up, keeping Squall's back covered, head cocking to get a better idea of any incoming wolves- and that is the sound of rock crumbling away, more snarling hounds scraping to force their way through. "Sounds like it-"