Don't Even Think About It.

If asked afterwards, he would be forced to admit little memory of the fight itself. He was lost in himself, reason replaced with emotion. One that burned hot white through his veins untill he felt so alive. Always, always he had to be careful. Surrounded as he was by smaller, more breakable wolves. For all their fury and might, little could match the Warlord in a blood rage. He had not felt it consume him in so long, not since he had been solely Deathbells wolf. When he did not have a pack that relied on his sanity.

There something good in the purity of letting go. Not having to trend lightly or be gentle. He tore chunks of fur and skin from the back of the bear. He rendered flesh with his claws. Marshal harried it from the sky, and Bast took on a weaving, in-put pattern of fighting. Resin took it from the front, adding to the Warlords rage. White and red spittle from his maw, the deranged leader continued to tear and render. He began to expose tendrils and sinew, bone and fountains of blood. He tore until he found spine. Resin tore part its knee, and Sirius reached spine. He pulled it apart like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Until it was twitching and alive, in pain too terrible to describe. Alive, but never to move again, never to hurt his wolves, to injure his Resi. Still he tore, hunks of meat, ripped but not eaten. Muzzle, paws, chest, red with its life blood.