Kildeer Rest cigarette daydreams

Nothing Zamael says helps; maybe it's not meant to. But he can't quite comprehend his last words, and in his confusion he bursts out laughing. It's a tired, strung out laugh; humorless. The tribe? What? He takes a breath, laughter suddenly gone. In its wake, a frigid tension permeates the air around them.
You can't be serious. You ass— He can't breathe. He takes a step back, dizzy, then another — and finally he finds it in him to run, because he doesn't want to know and it's expected anyway. Old habits die hard. He doesn't stop until the familiar walls of his den surround him, and he doesn't care that it's an easy, predictable place to find him. Right now he just needs to breathe.