[glow=#2b0505,2,300]ENTITLED BASTARD[/glow]DISOWNED [glow=#2b0505,2,300]tags - penned by orion[/glow] DISGRACE

draekon - the pitt - member / burn it all down

[sub][W]isker[/sub]

Akin to a sweltering kettle, the hound was at his boiling point. The acrimonious resentment boiling throughout his blood veins reached volcanic levels, fueling his soul's inimical flame. All this hate, all this rancor, all of it pinned on the Pitt and its venomous citizenry. Every milligram of his wrath was well-deserved, and little to no satisfaction would come until Jervis and his backslappers experienced an extent of agony equivalent to what he'd felt for the past four months. Every milligram of his wrath towards the Pitt was well-deserved, and he'd take great pleasure in watching his enemies' crumble before Tanglewood's newfound might.

A sudden surge of newcomers sent the swampbound tribe's population skyrocketing, their power only amplifying with every fresh face. Within a fortnight, his group became a powerhouse, the biggest one around. If numbers alone won battles, then Tanglewood already reigned victorious.

His role differed from his clanmates'. Whilst his comrades took the forefront, the canine crept around the battlefield. As much as he yearned to unload a substantial shipment of physical suffering on the jungle's denizens, Leroy's directive fell upon Sam's retrieval. Her safe return was way overdue, and he took partial responsibility for that (of course, it was mostly Crow's fault for caring too much about his proxy's safety). That didn't matter now. What mattered was that the doecat returned home in one piece.

That is, if she hadn't ceased beneath the harsh conditions.

No. Shut up. She's fine. She's alive.

His pace increases with the rising uncertainty. Each leap becomes more wobbly, more unfocused, yet he accelerates to a greater speed with every coming moment.

Lengthy limbs sustained Leroy whilst he recklessly bounded through the tropical wild, narrowly avoiding suspended vines and swerving around boulders by a hair's breadth. The leather attache latched to his waist thumped wildly against muscle and bone, its helpless contents flailing about inside the bag's boundaries. Within the large case was a curved blade, one that he'd used for both Delilah's and Romanempire's amputations; severing someone's leg wasn't exactly on his itinerary for the day, but the blade also made for a great weapon. Also present was a bolt cutter, a tattered packet of matches, and a razor. At least one of the items would prove useful in the next hour or so; yet for now, they proved as an obstacle. The accumulated mass of the articles served as a burdensome weight, draining the hound of his energy reserves in no time flat. Painful, hot exhales rang out of his lungs, like he was a locomotive cascading its noxious fumes into the atmosphere. His shoulders felt as though they were on the very brink of collapsing.

Under immense pressure, his unsteady balance falters even further.

Coming in from an expeditious leap, the canine's leftward paw misses the landing. Initially, the airborne male's noggin crashes into the ground, before he gets propelled into a spin-cycle of rough tumbles. Jaws clenched in an attempt to subdue the pain, he comes to a stop after a good few metres of successive plummeting.

In that moment, there was a chance to black out. Keel over. Call it a day and hit the hay. Pain bounced around the mongrel's skull, soon evolving into a major migraine. A gradually-enlarging vignette had begun encircling Leroy's eyesight, who was en route to the loss of consciousness. Yet, he fought. Fought to stay awake. Fought so that Sam's release was a possibility, not just a goal. Fought so that he'd actually be victorious for once in his damn life.

Shaky breaths soon eased themselves into a steady rhythm. His vision cleared, the darkness which had tried to consume it diminishing completely. He extends his set of shoulders, before leaning downward to stretch his spine. Functional. Shaken, the hound was, but functional.

Golden hues swept the wet earth, searching for any visible path that may lead him towards the captured Tangler's whereabouts. A path wasn't exactly what was found, but the point of interest's existence captivated his attention span. Off in the distance, obscured behind branches and twigs, there lay a multitude of structures of some sort. On closer inspection, after brushing aside the foliage, the cur deduces that they were temples or pyramids. Extremely large buildings of stone. It didn't take a genius to figure out that at least one of the temples harbored something - or someone - that Jervis wished to be left well alone. Hence, his destination was set in stone.

Beginning the trek towards the temples, a paw is raised to take the initial step - that is, until a glimmer caught his eye. It was the blade, buried blade-deep in soppy muck. Odd, it'd been in his attache just a second ago.

The attache. Where was it? He swings his neck frantically, desperately attempting to locate the leather bag that was no longer wrapped around his hips. It must've gotten misplaced when he was spinning out minutes before. But, glancing at the site of his skid-marks, the bag wasn't anywhere to be seen. That couldn't get lost. Not now. Not here.

He spots it dangling from a branch, a nasty hole torn through the fine skin. What pained him more, the wolfhound couldn't decide; seeing his possessions sprawled upon the ground in a messy heap, or seeing such a fine material shredded up like paper.

Well fuck. Some of his shit wasn't coming home.

That didn't matter. Material goods weren't a priority. Even if that shit mattered to him.

Sighing, he shoots his razor a doleful stare, before pressing onward. Teeth clasped around the blade's haft, he makes for the temples.

-

The smallest one looked the most promising. You only get people to protect stuff that you don't want other people to find.

At the mouth of a moss-blanketed staircase, two adversaries stood guard. Knowing that a fair amount of the Pitt's power was dedicated to repelling the invaders at the territory's nose, one could only assume that these two poor saps were tasked with securing this temple here. By all means, it was a fine temple - probably one of the best he's seen. But the thing is, that there temple probably had his friend locked up, and that wasn't good. And unfortunately for those two guys right there, who were unnarmed, Leroy needed to pay his friend a visit.

It didn't take much to off the both of them. The element of surprise was utilized in taking down the first fellow, who sustained an unsavory laceration to the throat and bled out on the spot. The second guy, however, put up a decent enough fight to leave their mark on the rather pissed-off proxy. He leaves the brawl with a dripping blade in his maw, along with a flashy new cut across his snout; leaving behind two hunched over figures at the foot of the staircase, one still animate. In Leroy's books, killing was far from the best option. No, he preferred to leave a lasting stain on one's character, a reminder to not beset him or his pals. Death was an escape from that punishment. In fact, death was a privilege. When you knew someone who had to suffer from eternal existence, such as Beck for example, you truly understood how awful life can be. Thus, he allowed one of his two opponents to get off with merely a handful of stab wounds.

The climb was treacherous, for he hated stairs. Once inside the temple, the cur soon found his wait into the caves.

Minutes of aimless wandering passed, and he was completely lost within the eerily inactive cave system. Stalagmites were the only identifiable objects in view. His fragile heart starts to sputter, beating faster than a jazz drummer on steroids. "SAM?!" he gravely cries. A reply would be his saving grace. Anything would be a saving grace. The sole thing sparing him from his brittle sanity was the thought of seeing the captured guardsman alive.

"Sam! Please say somethin'! Anythin'!"