While the chase was exhausting for Tychon, and the driving a constant blow to his ego, he found relief in the battle. It took his mind off everything else and focused him to a single point in time. No future, no past existed. Because of the strange meditation, the young brown male struggled all the harder to attempt to get away while taking low injury. He buried his teeth a few times into his assailant’s neck, but didn’t linger to rip open flesh or risk being pummeled himself. He was a loner, and he couldn’t afford to be crippled for even a week. This white-backed wolf was unaffected by those restraints. They didn’t even appear to be on his mind. Perhaps this was the mentality of pack wolves. They had healers, so they disregarded their own health to accomplish missions. Idiots.

Tychon, previous injures excluded, was no worse for ware on the front of injury. He’d misread the other male a few times and suffered a few bite marks to his shoulders and neck. The blood that prickled out of the shallow puncture wounds seeped into his chocolate fur, causing it to be stiff and unruly where the blood and spit had dried. Those aside, what was giving him most trouble was his missing upper right lip and healing right leg. They were the wounds he’d received from that white swine and his pet raccoon (Valefor and Anima).

The prisoner (as Tychon assumed he was) was hot with the effort of attempting to escape, so he was panting heavily by the time he neared Spirane’s border. His spit poured out in white strings from his right gums. He tried to rid himself of the dripping annoyances by every few steps, swiping his pink tongue across his exposed upper gum. The result was only half successful because while Tychon smoothed the sticky liquid was that there, he left more of it behind that began to ooze down his longest canine and over his bottom lip. His ravaged right leg, while it would clearly heal to one-hundred percent functionality, was atrophied from disused while the wounds closed into scabs and scars. It was shivering with the effort of Tychon’s unexpected demands for athleticism and refusing now to use its full range of motion, causing him to limp very slightly.

Then, the border’s scent infiltrated his nose. Tychon stopped as he registered the female’s wretched markings. He convinced himself the deification was worse than skunk spray, and his nose wrinkled upward in disgust. Before he could completely refuse his forward momentum though, the male behind Tychon shoved him. He stumbled over the boundary. Tychon whirled on the bastard with bared teeth. The words, “Welcome to Spirane,” interrupted Tychon’s hostile intent and his ears swiveled forwards for half a moment before flattening against his head. A deep, deep growl rumbled in his throat while his amber eyes tensed into vicious slits. He didn’t think it funny and was insulted he hadn’t just been asked. Tychon blamed his fucked up face; it made him look like he didn’t have a rational mind.

“No shit, Old Man? Thanks for the greeting,” Tychon spat as he thought for half a moment, to lunge at the male’s exposed throat and rip it out when he lifted his head to howl for his leader. But because Tychon hesitated, the chance vanished when the head lowered again. Tychon lunged anyways, seeking to grasp the gray wolf’s muzzle and push him backwards. Tychon figured he’d have the room after to spring to safety over the border and back into the free lands.