The Quiet

The world rumbles beneath his feet, and perhaps there is a time where the harsh heat of the dry, packed earth beneath him would cause him pain and discomfort, but alas, the nerves in the pads of his feet have been singed beyond redemption, and so he feels nothing. He feels only the dull, distant throbbing of the heated earth through the bones of his stout legs.
The sulfuric scent of brimstone pervades the air and stings the nostrils,, though perhaps it can be ignore with time. It has now ingrained itself into his pelt, the scent clinging to the thick fluff of his undercoat and giving him the distinct smell of ash, smoke and brimstone. A devil he may appear, though it is far from the truth, as he deems himself a warrior and defender of all that is good.

Perhaps it is this that drive shim to face what it is that has marred him so, causing the dead nerves in his body, the limping gait that will never go away for the damage done is permanent now. He will face it succinctly, constantly, daily, as it will not defeat him. Whatever beast of fire that girl mentioned, he will face it and it will be slain and only then can he dare to tell himself that he has defeated anything. No, he will not be taken and defeated by some force of nature that took his home from him.

Perhaps it would be best to find some way to work out this misplaced aggression, lest the warrior find himself in a situation unwise.