Ataji awoke from his trip outside pride borders with a pounding head, several scrapes and bruises he didn't remember getting, and dried blood in his fur that didn't belong to him. The Viking Captain heaved himself to his paws with a wince, and then a grunt when a wound twinged painfully. He looked but it was under a clump of matted fur. He sighed and began to walk to the shoreline. He was thankfully in a mostly-deserted part of the pride. This was getting out of hand. He'd lost two days in the past few weeks. He'd been doing so well, previously, with the black rage. But for some reason it'd been coming back with force lately - not in front of anyone yet, that was a good thing...and as far as he was aware he hadn't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it.
(hadn't heard it anyway; but who'd discover a corpse? Would they?)
He shook the thoughts from his head, and with a growling roar lept into the sea. It burned like fire across his wounds, and it'd make his fur atrocious, but he'd be clean at least. He scrubbed at himself by rolling in the sand. The water blushed ruddy red before it was swept out again, and soaking wet, the Captain emerged, shaking himself. Hurt like it hadn't when the wound was inflicted, when he was lost. Vikings were supposed to be strong...but not like that. He needed guidance. He would go and visit the priestesses...but first he should catch them something. That seemed polite.
So, with a freshly killed rabbit held delicately in his jaws, Ataji lurked around where the priestesses hung out, hoping for some advice.
