The warlord didn't stay snarled in the debris for long, he was back on his feet. The boat churned and threw the fighters this way and that as the storm raged. Blood, seawater and rain were under Ryheric's boots and slippery at the grip of his sword, but he didn't falter now. Perhaps he couldn't. Retreat and fear were ripped away from him, just like anything he'd ever tried to keep. Everything was red and black, now. Wrath, hunger for blood and willful abandonment of control.
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Son of Mouse
