Noctisardor Bypass [m] The taste of liquor on your lips

mahler was fucked up, as the youths would say. heavy bites to his jawline, the side of his throat, and his shoulder had stiffened. his limp was apparent, gait mangled. 
failure.
he groaned, rousing himself from where he had lain to recover.
and in the man there raged suddenly a malevolent and deep anger, unrequited and unsatisfied. it enlivened the man, so that when he stalked along the land that still held the faint fetid tinge of ursus, he began to mark. 
it was amidst the tumultuous harried marking of the violated borders that wylla discovered him.
for a long moment mahler only gazed at her as the air began to fill with the sweet command of her body. the anger did not abate, however; it drove out the pain and spurred onward his own desire.
the graf rumbled low in his throat, leaving off his tasks to approach, to bump her shoulder gently with his crown, to breathe all of her and know that despite his own inability, despite what had transpired in rivenwood, wylla was his constant.