Bearclaw Valley those lions are coming, oh they're coming.

as far gone as she was, she was not so faded to miss the brief glimpse of anger in merrick’s gaze; the way his tears slid from a hardened eye. he would live on — perhaps, in a twisted way, merrick would be her legacy.

she had accepted the bitter truth, yet seeing another wolf grasp with reality’s unyielding permanence was worse — she had been accepting, fine even, up until that moment.

resting against that cold slab of stone, caiaphas’ milky gaze settled upon the hunched form of her mercy-killer. a weak smile pressed her lips — how befitting, to have her end be so far from her home.

the sound. she was sick — so unfixably sick — yet homesickness lurched in her heart as she thought of the battered shore. hers. ending it all here seemed tempting — gods, she was so tired.. she was ready to slide from this failing body, to free herself from the constructing heat of her fevered mind... but there was one last thing —

no, the smile faded, her eyes growing distant. so bound was she by her own tirelessly warped sense of revenge, that she could not consider dying before blood was exacted in her name. she hoped, when she turned, that her crazed body would take her to easthollow. fuck them — they deserved to suffer as she was suffering. in a way, wasn’t this all their fault, anyway?

even now, the hate that rose to her heart was full of indomitable fury.

do not stop me.