Dragoncrest Cliffs maybe spit some blood at the camera, just stay alive

There wasn't anything special about the day. The sun rose, and with it, Verx. He stretched and went about his duties--patrolling, marking, patrolling, marking, lunch. . . It was just another date on the calendar, another rotation of the Earth that'd be forgotten before long.

Until the call went up, and the Earth stopped spinning.

Vercingetorix stopped what he was doing entirely, staring straight ahead, ears rotating over and over, as if testing his own hearing. Was that--like, was that. . .? ?!?! ?! ? ! And the short-circuit began, slowly but surely. Every wire within him coming haphazardly apart.

He walked stiff-legged toward the summons, face set like stone, eyes blank, wide. He passed by wolves he knew but could not recognize in the moment, passed by them all, until he saw only Blixen in front of him. Blixen. Her own countenance serious as a heart attack.

No, the cheka said hollowly, the grief coming up like hot, sour vomit. It should have been me. It should have been me. It should have always been me. That was his job and he'd failed. He'd failed--where had he been? Fucking someone? Filling his fucking stomach? Being a fucking idiot somewhere, instead of doing his FUCKING job?!

Well he'd fucked up somehow, he knew, because Heda was dead and he hadn't taken the bullet.