Bramblepoint We’re going to your place

Setting: Evening, sunset — 19:00
Weather: Warm, very light breeze, clear skies.

Referencing wounds from Nyra in this thread.

Santi barely escaped death only some days ago. The pale beast known as Nyra nearly slit his throat and strung him up like a pig for slaughter. He’s been humbled horribly and maybe he’d learn his lesson. Or perhaps not. It usually takes at least three bad decisions to learn his lesson and that’s only the first. He remembers laughing sadistically even at his own defeat. His hubris isn’t so warped to believe he’d been anything but beaten within an inch of his life. The sharp pain of the jagged scars marring his face still burns like hell fire even days later. His throat had almost been split open and he finds it painful to speak, his usually smooth voice is gravelly and every time he swallows he can’t help but wince from his injuries. 

Again, he’d been humbled. Now as he stalks through this forest, silvery eyes squinting from the harsh sunset shining through the trees, he reenacts the fight within his mind. Wincing from his injuries from every move. 

His face is absolutely ruined, jagged, bloody scabs crisscross every which direction. Splitting his lip and showing dangerous teeth. There’s a multitude of deep gashes across the top of his snout so deep he can feel air blowing from the wound as he breathes. His tongue has been split about an inch in at an odd diagonal angle. He looks like he got mauled by a bear and he might as well have been. He doesn’t mourn his injuries. Well, all but one; the loss of his left eye. Two deep gashes move from the crown of his forehead, down his brow, and skimmed right down his eye. She sliced right into his pupil, instantly blinding him. It irritates him so seriously he can do nothing but keep it closed. When it heals his eye would be partially deformed and the pupil a milky white just as the silver of his irises. Not only did she take his eye, but she almost sliced his throat. The inch deep gash sliding diagonally across his throat from underneath his jaw down the column of his neck. It hurts to move. It hurts to live, but the pain excites him, trains him, hardens him. 

So he moves stiffly through the forest. Searching for anything or anyone who might have the whereabouts of his mates after finding nothing in the haunted woods but an ass kicking. He won’t stop until he finds them.