A poltergeist with a pout could be discerned in the feeble crowd blind with the red lure of revenge. Yellow eyes neglected to direct his attention on their newly appointed leader, but rather cast his forlorn stare onto the buckets behind him. So much of his work attempting to sate his carnivorous best friend's hunger would be going to waste in a couple hours, and all for what? Beck may have supported their return to roots, but a thin voice in his skull told him something would go horribly wrong.

    Kneading claws into the loamy soil of the cemetery, the scrawny feline tore his gaze from his foul contribution to briefly glance at Crow before finding his mud-caked paws much more interesting. He supposed a fight would be exciting, maybe even amusing. Memories drifted to that of a now distant friend and her plight caused by the groveling whelps in the desert, enslaving and torturing -- a crooked grin bared teeth at the thought of tearing their pelts from muscle. Yet Beck remained silent despite his crazed smile, claws flexing in the dirt as the others chimed in.