Dragoncrest Cliffs i pull god's roots out

It was all far too much for Artaax to even begin to reconcile himself with. Every word entered his ears and glued itself ruthlessly to his mind, but still. It was as though he didn't understand language anymore, or at least the concepts  they were meant to impress. He blinked slowly as they went back and forth, Blixen asking the questions and Bobby sharing the terrible, terrible answers. But it was all nonsense to him. He had spent so much of his life ignoring the things that would've otherwise changed his perceptions of himself, his worth, and the world that he lived in. For a few, hopeful moments, it seemed like this might be one of those same things. He would just reject this truth like he rejected the others and go on with his life thinking that Thuringwethil was not dead - she was just away again, fighting on some battlefront somewhere far away, always preserved in his mind just the way she ought to be - fierce, strong, and immortal. Just a few more days from returning to them ot be his commander, his nomi, once again.

Drageda is yours, Wormana.

It wasn't meant to be.

He shattered.

Artaax's control vanished in an instant, like a dam suddenly just disappearing to allow the flood to come thundering down. He felt it all then. It was heartbreak, it was misery, unequalled and inescapable. It was rage like he had never before known, and the boy was a hurricane in its arms. He shot past them, slamming his shoulder hard into... someone... Bobby? Blixen? Likely Bobby. Whoever stood in his way was knocked aside as the feisripa tore out of Hougeda in a show of more emotion than he ever had in all of his life collected. He was yelling something. Shouting No, or It can't or some other words that would never come close to explaining the utter devastation that was running rampant throughout him now. He cried, he swore, he stumbled. He ran.

He would go to the cliff. He would be blind to the drop, but not the confirmation it held for his fears. He would run from it, and when shortly thereafter, Blixen called for the pack to come to her, he would run from that too. He would run until there was nothing left inside or out. He would run until he collapsed somewhere, alone in the Wilds, and he would sleep in the embrace of nightmares that he wouldn't be saved from upon waking. But eventually, he would awaken.

And then, the whole world would burn beneath the wild, raging fires of Artaax Drakru's anguish.