let the bodies hit the floor

Black clouds lingered with the Warlord. There was no retribution, no revenge. There was no way to bring back what he had lost. He tried very, very hard not to think about what he had lost. There was plenty else for the Warlord to linger upon. Like the terrors that had led to him hurting Briar, or the injured look in Tamsyns eyes as she confessed to loving him. To Artorias, telling him to sodden take the leap if that was what he truly wanted. Of standing at the castles edge, and knowing how much he desired exactly that.

A part of him hated those he loved, those that tied him to the here and now and kept him from finding his way back to her.

Perhaps that was why he was stalking through the mangroves. Paws quiet on the damp soil, taking in the scents of the land. The large and strange creature that had taken up residence here had left its scent markers across the grove. It changed the game, from mindless pacing, to something more serious. The Warlord needed to know what it was that stalked near his lands. If there was something near-suicidal about his approach to war and battles now… well. Perhaps it was to be expected. He had always been a reckless fighter.

The scent of blood led him towards the bloody work of the creature. The Warlord frowned, familiar with the metallic tang on the air. A wolf he had known… but considered missing. Recluse had told him that this wolf had not made his way back to the Empress.

It did not take him long to find the scene, and at first the Warlord thought Magnus dead. blood splattered the surrounding area, and Sirius could see the crushed leg first and foremost. The stillness of the man's form aided his thinking - until he was not thinking any longer.

It did not matter that Mangus was no longer ‘his’ for he had been once, and Sirius Fatalis could not abide one more failure, one more death. Roaring like a territorial lion, he tore through the groves, and after the fading scent of the beast. He forgot his singed coat, and numerous stab wounds still healing along his body. He forgot everything, but the taste of blood. The reckless, angry Warlord fought head-first with the sloth. Perhaps it was only catching it by surprise that gave him the upper hand, or perhaps the Warlords anger had been unexpected.

He came back to himself, dripping gore, and spitting spinal bones from his fangs. He shook out his paws, through it did little to clean himself. Stepping off the body of his foe, blinking, coming back to himself, he realised he would live. A shame, but one that could not be helped.

He made his way back to Magnus, prepared to bury his dead, and found that his old Reaper lived still. He placed a paw over his head gently, examining the terrible wounds, and growled. “Mine. Now, and always. Never again will I lose what is mine.” He dragged the man home to the Armada, and had Mojito see to his wounds. He had a terrible injury to his head, and only time would tell if he ever woke again. Once his healer had finished patching up what he could, the Warlord paced back and forth outside the entrance of the den.

"Speech"