The Sunspire Death Is A War[M] Blanket

The stranger's words—his questions go unanswered as Clay convulses on the ground below, too preoccupied with the vision of Vengeance in front of him, and the painful flashing of words long forgotten that is dragged back. Why is he alive? Why is he here? Why him?

Why
Why
Why

All he feels is his own thundering heart beating, fluttering within his chest as it attempts to wash over the fear that has been placed there. It's tight—too tight, and as he gasps for art in a futile attempt to fill his lungs, he scrunches his face up and closes his eyes, attempting to make qualms with the fact that he might be dying.

That is... Until the touch of a cold nose nudged his shoulder.

The sensation of being touched, of feeling the cold flesh arises something within him, and with eyes flashing open the small wolf snapped his jaws upward in fury with multiple tries, attempting to ward off the other. He aims to get ahold at the behemoths fur underneath his chin, to rip out strands.