No sobbing or sympathizing could restrain him now. Not even something pinching at his ankle -- as if he could register pain with his mind already overwhelmed by his dangerous anger. Anyone could plainly see that the boy was livid, regressing into a state he prided himself on crawling out of so long ago. She's lyin' to us, don't let her lie to you, Becky. Razor-sharp teeth gritted at her mantra of "he didn't care", and he grimaced at her tears slipping down onto his clenched paws. No, of course he didn't care; she was expendable, and being used to gather information. Before he could interrogate any further, a scaly annoyance decided now was a perfect time to make friends. Pinprick pupils could only glower at the water spirit as any movement could mean escape for Amaranth. He was close to snapping at Fish, and by the time Amunet strolled up, he was about ready to add them onto his gutting list, too.
Frustration was the perfect catalyst for sparking another violent action; and while Amunet's speech was meant to comfort, the poltergeist only increased his crushing grip, no longer provide her room to utter out pleas, and likely bringing beads of blood to the surface from where pearly claws sunk into skin. All of mankind were pigs. Selfish, child-killing pigs. And he intended to be butcher bringing them to the slaughter. At Amunet's prompting question, Beck shifted his paws from her muzzle and neck to both her temples, swinging her head forward and back to bash her skull against the tree bark without little time given to resist. It seemed blunt force trauma was his favorite method of knocking people senseless, and this was no different. When she slumped over into an unconscious heap, Beck would nonchalantly step over her crumpled form and coldly hiss to the larger females, "Get her back to camp." The feral glint in his lantern-like glare was beginning to dull, but there were no other words from his scarred maw as he shouldered aside ferns and disappeared into the undergrowth with an agitated flick of his stubby tail.
[align=center]»――➤Frustration was the perfect catalyst for sparking another violent action; and while Amunet's speech was meant to comfort, the poltergeist only increased his crushing grip, no longer provide her room to utter out pleas, and likely bringing beads of blood to the surface from where pearly claws sunk into skin. All of mankind were pigs. Selfish, child-killing pigs. And he intended to be butcher bringing them to the slaughter. At Amunet's prompting question, Beck shifted his paws from her muzzle and neck to both her temples, swinging her head forward and back to bash her skull against the tree bark without little time given to resist. It seemed blunt force trauma was his favorite method of knocking people senseless, and this was no different. When she slumped over into an unconscious heap, Beck would nonchalantly step over her crumpled form and coldly hiss to the larger females, "Get her back to camp." The feral glint in his lantern-like glare was beginning to dull, but there were no other words from his scarred maw as he shouldered aside ferns and disappeared into the undergrowth with an agitated flick of his stubby tail.