#this is a milder case of when maelgwyn feels nothing

[the-desert-beast]

The adrenaline violently coursed through his veins.

Eyes fierce and wild, wounds bleeding, his gargantuan prey frenzied and frightened, he finally felt alive. The creature in front of him was bleeding badly, hamstrung, wounded, he and his companion had been toying with it. His taloned gauntlets dripping with his prey's blood, he aimed another precise, violent slash at it's neck.

It recoiled, a furious guttural sound leaving it's throat.

Snapping it's jaws at The Beast, Paola took the chance and lunged, biting as hard as she possibly could on it's wounded leg. The thing's serpentine neck squirmed before whipping around to grip Paola in it's deadly jaws, but she was already gone.

The Beast took the opportunity to deal the final blow; ripping it's throat open.

One last spasm, a death rattle, and the massive Hydra fell limp, bleeding out into the sands of the desert. He looked over the work of himself and his companion. (”Too easy.”) he thought to himself, more in empty dissatisfaction than in anything resembling “proud.“

The adrenaline subsided. The blood dried. He felt empty, again.

He crouched down in front of the creature's mouth, carefully removing two of it's most fearsome fangs. One, a personal trophy, the second, Paola's newest toy. And after skinning some of it's remaining usable hide and taking the more intact, and delicious cuts of meat, his mind began to wander on the walk back.

He thought of nothing particularly coherent.

His and his tiger's footfalls left prints behind in the soft warm sands.

He thought of when he used to feel something.

The warm sands gave way to harder sandstone, dirt and grasses.

He thought of how useless, meaningless, all this- being alive, felt.

Hours had passed.

Stuck in his head, his feet lead him down the rest of the path back home instinctively.

He thought of the ways he'd numb himself again.

Usually, he'd feel some amount of relief upon entering his lovingly cluttered home.

The amber light of his favorite lanterns hanging from the ceiling illuminated the red, orange, and gold colors of loved trinkets and fabrics strewn about the house.

He looked over his extravagant bed, cluttered with all manner of patterned throw pillows, a few larger deep red pillows he'd actually use. The black sheets were unmade- Had been that way, for two weeks now. It had been a long time since he cared to relax.

His trophy cabinet stocked full of fallen foe's fangs, horns, scales, furs, armor, jewelry- It all felt like nothing as of late.

His liquor cabinet, filled with his favorite, very expensive whiskeys, rums, and a few wines, was the most used thing in his house. This was always the case, but it was a hindrance during weeks like these.

No relief came.

He put everything from his hunt in it's rightful place, threw Paola her new toy- which she happily caught, wandering off to curl up in her favorite sun-tanning spot. His mind had turned against him the moment he had killed his latest hunt and the fight had ended.

Huffing a sigh, grabbing his medicinal supplies, he mended his wounds with the bare minimum. Disinfecting with his favorite alcohol, taking a swig, wrapping them in bandages that he'd remove sooner than he should. He could feel nothing. He washed, dried, and polished his custom-made gauntlets. Only danger felt like anything these days.

This sort of habit had become far too common as of late. He couldn't make himself care whether he lived or died. (”What would Zefiro think of me, if he caught me thinkin' like this- In this state.“) he thought to himself, pained at the thought of Zef worrying over him- Worse yet, scolding him.

Rolling his shoulders, a habit of his, he attempted to banish the worst of his thoughts from his mind. He sipped more of his favorite whiskey straight from the bottle.

Too tired to hunt anything else.

Not the kind of tired that allowed for sleep.

He could think of only one reprieve;

more alcohol, and sex.