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His blade stuck deep into the great bear’s chest, burned, bristled, ignited the infernal flame etched between his sinew, his flesh, his soul, until the boy was no longer anything but a living, breathing weapon, scalding and incensed, kindled and pernicious. The bear flailed, a massive round of paws meeting the air, grasping for anything; and he slid away, backed his rapier out of the muscles and skin, watched the blood fly through the air and stain his cutlass’s blue veneer, witnessing the end of a carnivore, brought down by their joined forces, by their spitting rage, by their rebellious, anarchical decrees. Weaver guarded and lunged, Wessex stabbed, Beloved shouted, hollered, and unleashed hell – and he only breathed when the bear grew quietly, infinitely still, and then they were only a tattered mass again, newfound soldiers quickly learning what it was like to see death, what it was like to fell another being.
For a few seconds, he said absolutely nothing, absorbing the swift moments, the quick, annihilating contortions, the way they’d attacked, sieged, and assaulted with the barest of forethought – how abrupt, how keen, how rash they’d all been, how glorious the triumph. The pain pounded against his head again, resounded and ricocheted, poured from open wounds down the length of his back, blood and fire, and he didn’t care, not just yet, only turning towards his compatriots with the most mutinous grin, proud, feral, courting the flames of hell, the restless embodiment of weapons and rebellion; an insurrectionist who’d seen his revolution spark. “Nicely done!” He prospered to them all, bobbing his head in each of their directions until the pain seized him entirely, and he stiffened to a minor degree, eyes pinpointing over their wounds too, how deep, how brutal, how affected they’d all been. Would they call him foolish again, for leading them into the Steppe, for racing into the chase, for blindly defending the mare they didn’t know? The prince’s eyes narrowed, bluntly coiling his connection with Orsino into a keen command, so curt and forceful the kitsune hadn’t even had time to blanch, roll his eyes, or hiss in contempt. Find Enna, was all he granted, and the Stygian beast didn’t linger, rampaging off into the nearby mountains and cliffs, intending to find the Mender to patch, sew, and stitch them back together again (pretending he wouldn’t receive another tongue lashing from her as a result).
He swiveled his head briefly to the crowd, “Everyone all right?” ensuing from his lips, knowing full well no matter what they answered, they’d still be taken care of none the less, then maneuvering slowly to the painted mare, the one who’d been selected as prey. The General didn’t approach unkindly, he was too stiff now, too sore, too molten to do anything but coil that blinding, dashing smile back upon them again, stare centered squarely upon her unknown figure, pondering which beast they’d just saved. “Who are you?”
Thereafter, he beckoned back to his soldiers, to his compatriots, war on his mouth, on his lips, on his tongue. “We shouldn’t let this beast go to waste.” Perhaps, in their anger, in their fury, they wouldn’t care about which parts they chopped apart or harvested for their liking, indulging to trophies, to weapons, to armor, and defense in memory of their fateful outing (they’d come together now, and he knew they’d be able to do it again, all might, all tenacity, all united in loathing and irreverence). “Take what you wish,” and he stood back, bleeding, torn, but emboldened, commanding, and dangerous; hoping they’d be just the same (and they’d ripple across kingdoms, a mass, a team, a union of wolves from the mountains, savage, wild, and licentious).
[Hey hey, take a bear claw necklace, make a nice bearskin pelt armor...thing. ;D]
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[O] clear your throat and face the world [patrol]
