Ankyra Sound You're in my wheelhouse and I can't wait to give the order

Late, and vaaaaaaague.

It was not in his nature to flee from battle. It felt wrong. To do so burned him beyond his wounds; these wounds that bled freely as he blindly charged between the trees, swarmed by the rain. Skin numb, limbs an autonomic churning; he skids across loose leaves, smacks the mud hard, but doesn't hear it, doesn't feel it. The sound of the storming in his ears is like white noise.

There is only rage within him; he is a tumult. Revui knows the taste of blood through the minerality of the rain and it lingers along his gum line; he feels a loose tooth with a prod of his tongue, and cannot stop flicking it, not until he goes over a particularly irregular lump in the woods and it jams loose. Spits it out.

He follows the crashing of the white noise until it is booming like thunder in his head. As Revui finally sags against a tree trunk he is cognizant of how smooth it feels, how cold, and doesn't realize until he leans against its surface and it tips, that its long dead. A discarded thing wedged upon the sand bar.

All he can think about is the pale wolf among the trees—her teeth shining, her snarl etched in his mind with the sound of the storm in place of a voice. How did one girl manage to tear in to him like this --? Had he not learned from his time with the Nightwalkers--? Stupid. Weak. Pathetic.

A fucking mess.

The leviathan's breathing began to rasp and he finally had to stop, sinking in to the sand on the edge of the world—lungs filling with salty air and a familiar tang. A vague warmth that made him think of his mountain; of high, dry dust. Revui is staring at the nothingness that is the tide rolling in, pushing out, frothing as it reaches for him, and does do the simple thing and turn his thick skull. If he had, he'd see that the friend he'd been hunting for was alive and well—and only a few feet away.