Cleanse Your Hands, You Sinners

Some might find relief in the ways of silence. To focus, to clear their head, to take time to admire the world around them. Some might believe that silence is just a way to show one is deep in thought. Silence would perhaps be a positive exchange if not for the expression laid across the Raid King's face. Not a single word left the wolf's mouth on the journey back from Auster. Through the grove, skirting the boundaries between no man's lands and packs, he led them back with that perpetually vehement expression.

Still caked in mud, he cared not to take time to wash it off. His paws dragging through the muck, only taking a moment of tenderness when his pups needed help crossing the water to their home. He did not care for the exhaustion that riddled his aging body. Even the blood seeping from cuts caused by flying rocks were ignored. He had endured worse. No pain would compare to the firm feeling of fury within his chest. Nothing would change unless he made it happen.

And though they had won, he would only see the faults. How in his attempt to have a playful raid, one of ease and fun, they had been met with ferocity. An underserved ferocity. His own pups had been maimed by adults. And one of his own had even appeared to be friendly with them. Nearly backing from the raid until the last moment. If they had lost... No words would describe the wrath that would pour from him. Time had run out on the clock. No longer would they fuck around. This wasn't some ragtag band of hooligans and clowns. His vision of the future was more than bloodied bodies and snipping insults.

As he emerged from the chilly depths of salted water, he pauses for a moment. His chin tilts up to peer at the looming building that they call home. Progress had been made and that he was proud of. His pack had done well in regards of improving their home, but Abraxas above, they needed to shape up or ship the fuck out of here. Trudging forward until his paws enter the worn circle of dirt and grass out front of the main building, he then stops and turns to face the courtyard. Blocking the entrance from anyone entering after him, he looks out toward the beach. That stoic expression with cracks of indignation wears thin and so does his patience.

Lifting his muzzle to the cloudless sky as a fading summer sun dries the wet from his coat, Gilgamesh releases a harrowing call. Straight from his belly, booming and echoing over the isle. He demands the presence of his pack. From young to old, all were required to come. Changes were to be made if they wished to continue being what he had envisioned for them from the beginning.