forgetting all the blood we drew

[atrox]

hangman hooded, softly swinging; don't close the coffin yet, I'm alive

His mood is black as he watches the destruction. More pathetic than anything. A useless attempt to feel better, but he has never been above such things. The souls have no great powers, no magic to wield beyond their physical form, but he still enjoys watching them scour the corner of Hyaline, the earth rumbling beneath them as they do what they can. It’s when he notices something very real amongst the very dead. Cocking his head to the side, his eyes narrow, but he makes no move just yet.

Wordlessly, he directs the souls in her direction, watching as they square off with her.

They feel no fear, which he can appreciate, but they have no hunger for blood, which he finds rather dull.

When she blasts the light toward him, his eyes widen a little and, for the first time, he feels something other than blood-curdling rage for the first time that day. Still, he sits back for a moment longer, watching as the light slices through the souls. “A pointless endeavor,” he calls out, not yet shifting from his panther form. His claws flex and dig into the earth beneath him. “Although, feel free to fight the dead.”

Atrox rolls a shoulder as he jerks his chin toward another soul to the right of him. There’s a pause before the movement becomes a little more insistent. Almost with a sigh, the soul moves forward and then the rest gather before dissipating into nothingness. Leaving just him amongst the destruction before her.

He tastes the anger and the bitterness of regret on the back of his tongue.

He shows neither on his face. Rather a callous apathy he has come to know well.

“I can call them back, if you would like.”

ATROX | THE PANTHER KING