Qeya River time for dying

drags it out…

stærk’s body jolts with sudden, desperate energy, a surge of defiance driving him as his teeth snap against sun eater’s snout. the taste of blood floods his mouth, the metallic tang sharp and bitter, but it’s enough—it buys him the opening he needs.

he cannot die!

he isn’t ready!

he shoves, claws raking against the snow as he scrambles out from beneath the chieftain's crushing weight, skittering backward in uneven, frantic movements.

ēdruta ziry! the demand rasps from a hoarse throat.

nyke aōha mūbrōzys iksan! a plea.

there is desperation in his crazed eye as he stares at morwenna. bloodied fur tangled, matted in the ichor of his own making; with each strained breath bringing the rise and fall of his flanks. a rib or two surely broken from the struggle. the snow beneath him painted in crimson.

a canvas of betrayal.

egō syt ñuhon ūndegon syt ñuha lentor tolī jorrāelagon?! his voice is of trembling rage and sorrow. of pain and agony.

his body burns with the effort to keep standing, to remain conscious, but he does so just enough to ensure his own survival. stumbling weakly towards his sister, seeking her embrace as tears well in a bloodied eye; risking the tear of his throat from his body should she not stop her raging husband.