The Sentinels forge me a blade

The dice gods are not in his favour

His eyes trained the man, running along his large body. He leaned his head forwards, wondering why he was so accepting of the statement. Most men bristled and roared when he implied such acts upon their bodies.
But not this one.
He came closer, looking long his leg, his side. Was he taking pity on the wounds he adorned? He sighed softly as if letting age slip through his fingers. His nose just brushed into the coca-dusted fur. Beautiful. Maybe being old wasn't such a problem.

The man dove for his shoulder, so naturally, Rakk shifted his weight away. Only to have a vice again on his tender leg. He screeched a furious call that could split ears. A pained sound that cleaved his mind with the burning throb that forced its way into his senses and blocked out all other thoughts.
His eyes watered. He was still roaring. Throat burning. Not attacking.

He lost his back legs, their support crumbling under him and sinking his hind end to the ground. He, at last, started to try prying himself from the wolf. The pain greater than when it was first inflicted.
Infection was sunk into him.

He whimpered, weak. Coiling back like a cave-trapped creature exposed to sunlight. He snarled softly and held still. The pain throbbing. Burning. Heating.
His nostrils flared in an attempt to keep himself together. To hold back the pained sounds that lept to his throat; trying to signal his discomfort. He panted and swallowed. A heave rose up, bile scoring his throat.
He held on; he wasn't about to throw up from this.
His jaw feathered, swallowing again.

"Let go," a deadly calm had settled over him. He was weakening, but it made him feel alive.