Wheeling Gull Isle bismil

their reactions were so varied, so different. the wolf with the striped ribs, so cool in her fury. stockholm, who had every right to kill him right here, right now, much the same. the gray one pushing him back, and komodo's teeth in his scruff. it hurt, but not as much as coelacanth's last words.

peace go. it could have been 'please,' but he knew it meant 'peace.' even after he had brought her violence, she wanted for him nothing but peace.

he didn't deserve her. no one did--but least of all him.

driven back by the inexorable nipping of the brown woman at his heels, he stumbled off the beach and onto the sandbar, then, when the scene was far enough in the distance, he fled. but not before seeing chikni raat collapse. his heart had broken, then, and he didn't know if he would ever be whole again. he was. . .

there was a lot of blood. he could barely stand; his vision swam. but he ran and ran, not knowing where to go besides home, but he couldn't go back to morningside. no, everything was--

was so fucked up--

he'd fucked up.

but hey, he might get lucky. he might die, somewhere along the way.