He’s still knee deep in sand from the up-kick of the twitching mutt’s hind legs; watching its decapitated bone maw click and drool about three feet away from a body racked with blaster hits. He lowers his weapon in order to crawl out the dune. ‘I need a drink.’ Not a lie but not a thank you, either.
He glances down to check he’s still in one piece, (well of course he would be — else he’ll probably be in pain, but just to be sure either way); and turns his attention back to the separated body of the Howlrunner — what was left of it anyway — and he cringes when he sees the tail still vaguely twitching above all else. A laugh erupts from within him then, “Doubt you’ll find one in this wilderness, unless you have it on you.”
