[...there's. An alarming blank look at the coyote. He stands there with Annabeth's dagger in hand and he watches for a moment, taking in the sight in front of him. It's not at all hard to figure it out. It's not at all hard to know it's her because of course it is, of course it's her, of course this happened.
Hannibal may be outside of the porch (or Chane, at this point), but to an outsider it won't be hard to guess what happens next.
There's a loud, feral war cry and he charges, immediately barreling straight into the coyote and starts hacking at the animal, screaming and screaming and screaming. The dagger moves in a blur of bronze and he fights it off of Annabeth's corpse, fur and probably blood flying as he continues tearing it apart.
no subject
Hannibal may be outside of the porch (or Chane, at this point), but to an outsider it won't be hard to guess what happens next.
There's a loud, feral war cry and he charges, immediately barreling straight into the coyote and starts hacking at the animal, screaming and screaming and screaming. The dagger moves in a blur of bronze and he fights it off of Annabeth's corpse, fur and probably blood flying as he continues tearing it apart.
That coyote sure is fucking dead, now isn't it.]