Dragoncrest Cliffs The Rules of Fight Club

Ahoy, Salty Seabiscuit, his pal crowed. Njord joined him for a few fleeting moments of play posturing, down-dogging, and stomping the ground with his wide paws. The action warmed his bones and his heart. It was nice to feel so good after such a long stint of listlessness.

Merlin laid out his plan of revenge: team up on @Kigipigak, curb stomp him into oblivion, and then win @Valmúaa back by flexing. Njord should have been excited by his friend’s scheme, but he found himself oddly blocked by feelings of inadequacy. Of guilt. Of shame. He chuckled in response, but it was only a half-hearted effort. He had not been able to best Kigipigak, stop Shardik from striking down Kaertok and Raleska, or prevent Rosencrantz’s death. To chase Kigipigak, now, felt like a doomed pursuit… and to add to the pile, he could not defeat his rival with his own strength. He required Merlin’s help.

Njord swayed a bit, clearly wavering, as his gaze broke from Merlin’s. He hated feeling this way: deficient in confidence. “Ah, Mer… I dunno,” he waffled. “Tha pack needs us. We can’t be throwin’ ourselves at Kigipigak’s teeth. Besides…I’m not sure I’d win Valmúa’s hear’ by gangin’ up on ‘im.” Though Njord’s tail was still fiery red as ever, it was clear the fight in him had been tempered.