Dragoncrest Cliffs anger is the more productive cousin of fear

Artaax had yet to notice he was bleeding. He wasn't even fully aware that Blixen was actually angry with him. His gaze had drifted back down to the dead body at their paws with its gaping jaws and dead, staring eyes. He felt sick. His mouth began to water as his gorge rose and he licked his lips anxiously as he began to back away. He went a few steps before pain suddenly lanced through his shoulder and he dropped to his haunches, leaning his weight onto his uninjured leg. Only then did he look away from the wide-eyed carcass, setting his gaze instead on the blood that smeared his pale coat.

A howl broke through the muffled pounding in his ears, drawing his attention back to his packmates. Artaax hadn't noticed that Furi was there too, but his heart thrummed with desperate longing again as he heard summons for nomi in her song. His physical hurts were nothing to him. There were a few scratches across his sides and underbelly where the trespasser had caught him in his thrashing and every other part of his frame felt bruised, but he didn't care at all. He had killed someone in the name of protecting his pack today like a true son of Drageda, but in that moment, he just felt like a son, and he wanted his mommy.