The roars of his victory echo across that blackened plain as the dawn begins to break and the white female whom had dared to challenge for the land he believes to be his own is chased back across the borders and into the shadows from which she had come. Driven back by his teeth and rage as every opponent before her. His darkened form moves to lope back towards the den he had left some hours ago though his form is stiffened and awkward in its gait. Each muscle protests his continued demands, the small scrapes to his face have already ceased to bleed and though his chest stings from the punctures within it, it too, is near inconsequential in comparison to the his torn and bitten sheath. It is swollen thickly, the area sore and bleeding, painful as it swings with each stride until he reaches the den once more. Yet, such is the insanity of his mind that he seems unwilling to offer it the attention it needs despite the blood that runs from it still and the pain that vibrates with each movement. He snarls, hisses, as if he seeks to punish his injury entirely for its existence, seemingly unable to connect the female he had defeated and the wound she had afflicted. He blames his body for its failure, cannot understand why it is tired or aches or pains him. He holds no true ability to perceive time, cannot understand his own age, truly, or the weight of it upon him. His wretched mind is lost, confused, frustrated at his own injuries and the burning in his lungs from the effort of his continued physical exertion and yet….despite all such things, despite his age and injury he had seen victory again tonight, defeated a wolf less than half his age. For he is a god amongst mortals, a darkened king, hardened by years and years upon the field of battle, undefeated in his violent revolts.

A rumble rolls within his chest, calling to She of Scars, summoning her to him as he paces before the den, not possessing the sense to cease, to stop, to allow his exhausted form to rest as his bloodied underside continues to run and his mind struggles with desperation to make sense of his tired muscle and stinging, throbbing sheath. He paces, over and over, calling to for She of Red and White if she is within range to hear, though why cannot be said- he simply seeks her. His mind does not consider Gunsynd and Nevermore, the children ceasing to exist in these moments as he, at last seems to seat himself, head twisted, jaws parted to run his tongue along the inside of his leg and groin, licking at the blood and swollen organ as instinct demands of him before he seems to rise to pace once more. Adrenaline feeds his frame and conflicts his mind. He is confused, agitated, frustrated and in desperate need of healing.

In sixteen years of life however- he has never been attend by a healer, never permitted another to touch him in such a fashion and indeed it would seem Nakato is to be tested to her limits this daybreak. For surely she has never held a patient like this. He is a legend within these lands, one many believe to be a spirit of darkness or the incarnation of death itself, many have never seen him, not truly and save for his mate and imprint he is…untouched by others, that towering animal of muscle and power, breath rising like smoke within the air as his sides continue to heave. He desires rest and yet adrenaline drives him onward, paining him more, frustrating him as he turns and twists before the den until the earth is worn bare and he halts a second time. He simply stands now, eyes of reptilian green fixated upon his side, hind leg lifted slightly, eyeing his injured sheath now as a snarl hisses again from his lips- as if he tells off the wound, threatens it, warns it- that he will not tolerate it paining him now as he waits….