Herbalists' Cache cen

it is great effort to not wheel after the pathetic wolfdog and haul him back for his judgement day.
run! he screams after him, voice full of frenzy. run like coward! i catch you still! and one day he would, but it could not be today. and that was the greatest, hottest shame of all; but it did not come before what he felt was strong loyalty to the sun clan, to kin. his blood that flowed even now upon the ground, spilling.
he sees meleys. tangled in war. he sees sun eater. a storm of violence, tearing through the traitor girl, as the false wife dares to strike him again and again. and beneath all sounds of war, a cry. thin. mewling. the sound of pup left behind.
dark fang rushes the den. he plants himself in front of it like a mountain of violence, turning on forelegs that tremble with adrenaline. feeling rivulets of his blood flow from a shoulder wound he pays no bother to. he pronounces: this is lanzadoii! this is kin! you die, all of you! one by one!
his head turns, sharp, savage. you come for pup, i rip your throat! you touch den, i carve your eyes!
he howls a song of fury and faith, a bravado that will ring out through the snow den clearing, for all traitors to hear, those who ran and those who fought. no god save you now! no ghost, no ice! only teeth! only fire! caribou gods! strike down liars! guide our claws! blind traitor eyes! crush their skulls beneath your hooves!
it is the fanatical screaming, shouting of a mad man. no one leaves with lanzadoii blood—not while he breathes.