He'd looked rough the past week or so, he'd only managed to slow down a little bit despite his wounds and he looked to be in a constant state of pain for it. Deutschland had done well to tend to the leader yet now the Shepherd had vanished, he'd abandoned his pragmatism in saving a 'valuable' Thunderlander for the sake of prioritizing another now. Deathstroke, the son of a bitch who Feliks loved oh so dearly, taken out from right under his nose. He hadn't gone through so much with the other hound just to lose them to the Ruins out of all places. The insignificant speck, the desert blemish, the hypocrites he'd given the time of day for the sake of freedom, they'd done something he wouldn't forgive. He may not have looked particularly well, but now he looked worse, paw steps more staggered than normal. It was like he was walking on the clouds, like nothing was real, and yet he was trying his damnedest to fight against that delusion. The hot sand on his grizzled paw-pads was certainly a good start, and the scent of death permeating in his nostrils was a good reminder to at least attempt to stay on his guard.
They're gone. The thought didn't feel real, and the longer he dwelled on it the slower the wolf's movements became. Cody escaped. But Slade... he hasn't yet... what happened? Something crunched beneath his foot and he stopped entirely, lifting the appendage to view whatever he'd crushed in an absent-minded state. A bug. He narrowed his eyes, shaking his paw to rid himself of the darkling beetle. From there Feliks halted entirely, gaze fixated on what felt like the endless desert horizon. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing or why he was here, it wasn't a conversation the scowling male had had with himself. Was he to rescue? To kill in justice's name? A statue among the Harrow's sands, the male kept his ears open for any potential danger.