Blackfeather Woods [m] The world laughed at any attempts we made to exist in it without pain

Xan was ready for it to end, to be left alone to nurse his pride and wounds, but that just hadn't happened. He'd not been left alone, though there had been a brief moment during which he was released. The grip upon his scruff had vanished so that Cicero could speak, but that which he'd said hadn't made much sense. Who was the he that the other had been referring to, and for what reason had he suddenly switched to calling him Xan? He tried to think, to reason, but his mind wouldn't cooperate with him at all. It was clouded, still, even the concept of deep thinking having become unavailable to him.

There was a second in which he'd though that it might be over, only to be proved wrong as his scruff was grabbed once again. Hardly had he the time to process that which was happening before he'd felt a familiar—but this time undesirable—sensation in his hind region. A yelp was released, followed by a whine, another plea. He'd opened his mouth, fully prepared to try and summon help, only to then force his jaws to close. He couldn't let anyone see what was happening to him, he couldn't reach out for help. The Inuit could only lay there and take what was given to him, his eyes having started to sting as he'd felt every fiber of his dignity slowly being stripped away.

He was certain, then, that death would have been better.