Overture Downs Let's raise some hell, shall we?

stigmata was carrying a chain with him.

a ton's worth of metal draped over his shoulders. it tethered him to something distant in the east - its long, massive, and corroded links leaving a legendary trench rupturing wider and deeper each step he took away from the anchor. even for such an experienced wolf, this was an immeasurable weight to bear; one he could not honestly say he had felt before.

he wanted to be rid of it - this weight of inescapable suffering - the burrowing curse of an idea that his honor, his very integrity as a wolf had been besmirched by an inability to tolerate his hurt feelings. hadn't he been bred hard and resilient to such things? was he not crafted to obey, and to protect, no matter the cost to him physically? no matter the detriment to him mentally?

as easy as it was for him to move on from some things, this chain he couldn't let go of.

so he came down from the mountains to dismantle the anchor.

he wasn't expecting the sudden surge of agency and need to protect said anchor when he saw her retaliating tooth and nail against a devil-made assailant. stigmata barely registered that nunataq was there too before breaking into a sprint, loosing a barrelling distress-howl out to any possible canine in the vicinity, as he tore through branchlings and surged across the snow like a grey river; he could only pray to reach the group before they were cut to ribbons.

mouth like a gun and teeth like bullets, stigmata aimed to taste hellcat hide and he would settle for little else.