the curse of dark mountain

Fuming now, Pyrrhic's gaze remained locked on the distance as he tried to make sense of his feelings. He still wanted to tear Erystotle to pieces but the tears now running down his face and the swelling emotions fueling them were threatening to overshadow his rage. Pyrrhic was just so tired and so angry and so sad he didn't know what to do. He would have been better off if he could just pick one. At least then he could more or less follow a script. Anger: rage maul Erystotle. Grief: collapse into a puddle of tears. Fatigue: curl up somewhere warm. But he was too sad to be angry, too angry to sleep, too tired to be sad.

Because nothing else came to mind, he snapped in a tone a bit too soft to be a real threat, "I outta kill you. I bet that's what He wants." In all honesty Pyrrhic almost felt as though his connection to the Fallen God had been severed. It was impossible to say what the Fallen God expected from him now. He felt lost. Adrift. And he had no idea how to get back to where he'd been.