Chirrut is grace itself, grace given fangs. He'd managed to apologize before they got started, made sure someone went to find Master Sheotar just in case...

But it was too hard to hang on to anything other than fury as the incessant whine of the wind dug its claws deeper.

His mouth is already bloodied thanks to a blow Baze landed earlier, one that almost staggered him early in the March. Thus his mad-dog grin is crimson as he whirls, his staff cracking against Baze's like thunder.