Redsand Canyon days of creation

The air is electric.

Dizzy with some deep anticipation, he can already imagine the taste of blood in his mouth again. His mouth and the front of his shirt, all covered in blood. It rushes into the thin vessels in his brain like high tide and the deep sound of it fills his ears.

He hasn't noticed it yet but his biology has betrayed him and his hackles are flared up and out. His facial features, arranged tightly in the few seconds before a true snarl. 

Already, the contradiction rolls in his chest. A roughshod thing. Its black claws and black wings brush up against the walls of the cavity as it turns over and wakes. I'm no fighter.

But he does not leave.