Silvertip Mountain thestral

Dragomir was naive to believe these two beasts from hell would not harm him if only he stayed still and small. That was a childish fancy born from stories of clever thieves who went unseen by crouching motionless in the shadows. He was not a clever thief in the shadows. He was a small, terrified boy held captive by demons, and his cooperation would not halt them.

A sharp pain in his hind leg wrenched a piercing scream from Dragomir, and finally adrenaline found a hold on his heart. His forepaws scrabbled against the wet floor as he fought to escape Sanguinus' hold, but the adult wolf was much stronger than him. He was dragged backward, his leg burning, and found his lips held a hair's breadth from the dirty water. No! shrieked Dragomir, struggling with all his might but failing. I guess she didn't hear you. NO! PLE-EASE!

He remained blind to the suffering of his assailant. He knew only his own pain, his own suffering; there was no empathy left for whatever ailed Sanguinus. Even if there was, the boy would never realize what was actually going on. He had branded these two wolves as evil, the most wicked of monsters, and that was all they could ever be to him. The back of his neck exploded with pain as Sanguinus bore down on him and he screamed again, snarling cries of NO! NO! LEMME GO! NOOO!