Bearclaw Valley some kind of nature, some kind of soul

The rumble of his throat grew louder, louder as eyes glued onto him, as the man whispered, as he chortled. The growl was derived from the fact he did not know what would come next. That cluelessness bred fear. But he had to conceal it. He could not give this cluster of rogues the satisfaction he gave his captors. They could not make him scream.

When the man skipped back to his violet-eyed shadow, Orochi dug his claws in the dirt, attempting to pull himself up. He grunted and winced and growled. Leaning forward, falling back again and again. He had to get up and fight.