Larksong Grotto done running

A life stolen, a soul snuffed. Torn to shreds by a Crownore as was their right, their legacy. The age-old bloodlust sings through his veins, white-hot and violent, as his breaths are ragged with hardly contained rage. Even then, as the wolf beneath him gurgle on it's own blood, even as those eyes start to glaze over with lifelessness...that lust it not satisfied. It is all encompassing; a curse that Emýr tries time and time again to outrun. Metallic ichor ooze down his throat, coats his teeth, coats his fur, and suddenly, he feels like his father.

It destroys him, as much as it makes him feel reborn.

Ears pin flat against his skull at the shaky, breathless voice of Erys. Pupils dilate, fueled by a temper forged in flame. 
I did not need your help. I did not ask for it. 

"Help?" His voice is rough and it is violent. It is cruel, and he cannot help it. The thunder in his ears grows louder, deafening, maddening. He turns to face the man with a bloodied snarl, a snap of teeth just inches away from a slender throat that would give so easily beneath his hand. "You think that this is help? That I wanted that man to die beneath my blade?" He is being unjust and unfair. And yet, he presses forward. Crowding Erys' space, feeling like his father incarnate.

He feels like sinking his teeth into that pretty brown fur, of feeling the flesh tear away from muscle. It would be so, so easy...

"You are nothing but a problem, a burden!" The roar of his voice sends birds scattering from their perches. Another press forward, so he may back Erys against tree bark and trunk. "A fucking con. Do not mistake my mercy for help. I do not want you," he lies. "I do not need you." Another lie.

"It would have been a favor to us all, if I let that man take what he wanted." And yet, he didn't. He couldn't.