Dragoncrest Cliffs The wind is on the rise,

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Descriptions of uncomfortable eye stuff.

There was a second wolf there. Wylla failed to notice him even when he spoke. Her eyes were fixated solely on Umbra. Her jaws, aimed solely for the bitch's hind leg. Sunhawk may as well not exist to her. Whether this was the wolf Mahler fought or not, any wolf's presence on the cliffs right now was unwelcome. She remembered Drageda. She remembered the arrogance of those creatures, lording over Grimnismal like they were something special just because their heads were empty of anything besides their superiority complex. She remembered them hurting her brothers.

Drageda was dead and gone. Grimnismal, dead and gone. But Sagtannet was alive, had come so far to escape the inevitable beat of war drums and spare their children the anxiety they had once experienced in another pack, another time, under similar circumstances. Wylla would not have a repeat, especially after her partner was harmed. Umbra's injuries being recent were enough to damn her to the Eisen's unquestioning fury.

She felt flesh between her jaws. She felt the crunch of Umbra's bone as she clenched her jaws as tightly as she could. The effort of it made her skull vibrate. Felt and heard the crack that meant she'd successfully broken it. She released Umbra, readjusting, preparing to bear down on the woman and slam her head into the cold stone—

—then nothing but white hot lightning searing her brain as Umbra's jaws shattered her fragile brow bone and teeth sliced clean through her right eye. The globe ruptured. Wylla screamed and wrenched her head back, doing more damage than good: there was no hope of saving it now. Bits of it tore from her head, snagged on the cliff wolf's jaws. What remained leaked vitreous humour and blood in equal measure. If Wylla wasn't blinded by the destruction of her eye then she would've been blinded by the sickening combination of liquids staining her face.

Her shrieking carried across the cliff. She took the pain and formed it into a spear; her sensibilities left her in that moment, replaced by berserk rage and feral intent. She surged ahead, compelled by pain and madness to drive her jaws into any part of Umbra she managed to reach—her strikes, though fast, were sloppy, inaccurate and incomplete. Not unlike death throes, only this was simply Wylla losing her mind over what had just happened to her. In her head beat a red command: KILL.

But even if she got ahold of the woman, she would only rip flesh and fur free and strike again and again, determined to tear Umbra into pieces, nothing else.