Ithalin was having a rather bad day. To the man, it felt as though two weeks had passed, but it was rather obvious it had only been hours, or maybe even minutes, since he had left the portal chamber. Whatever the reality of the situation was, the perceived passage of time was wearing on him. Fingers twitching, muscles tensing, eyes flicking about the empty hallways for something to harm, and finding nothing. He could feel his mind turning as his soul ached to feast, even as his few remaining rational thoughts reminded him that the knife-ears had some terribly effective weapons, ignoring their magics. He had forgotten how long it takes a bureaucracy to move, having operated alone for so long.<br/><br/>It occured to him briefly that the parade ground might hold sone kind of prey, maybe even a rat, but once more his survival instinct gnawed at his degenerating mind, pointing out that the elves might see him moving to exit the facility, and assume desertion. He pressed on through the labyrinthine tunnels, wishing more and more that he had brought a rat with him.<br/><br/>Eventually, he found a set of double doors with an inscription above them in some far-off corner of the dilapidated bastion. Through the haze of his growing bloodlust, he could (barely) translate the word gymnasium. Knowing that in the past inanimate objects had provided minimal relief, he hesitated for a monent before pulling the doors open. Even taking a bit of the edge off would bring it back to a controllable state.<br/><br/>His mind processed the new scene before him as quickly as it could--your standard equipment, sparring ring, punching bags, weights--before it began to work out a way to relieve the pain. Walking up to a nearby bag, he began to wail on it, abandoning all pretense of form or grace, just wishing the bag was living and breathing rather than inanimate and emotionless. Eventually he fell into a rythm of slamming his fists into the hard surface, bones cracking and mending without earning a second of attention from him. After awhile, when the fog had cleared from his thoughts enough that he could think, he processed the figure of a weathered-looking elf standing at the edge of his peripheral vision, watching the undead punch away his pain. Ithalin didn't pay him much mind, though, outside of paying him a curt nod of acknowledgement. Whether the elf chose to keep observing silently, or engage him, didn't matter much to him--having something to hit was enough.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>