01-13-2010, 09:44 PM
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632.
A hoarse, giddy cry escaped the wolf when his claws came in contact with Snake’s flesh, easily ripping it to shreds—the young warrior did a very good job of hiding it, suppressing it, but it hurt. He ignored the blood that he could feel seeping from the wound. It was not critical, and that was all that mattered. He gave it no mind, keeping himself focused on his opponent. His movements were erratic—if he had been trained, he had not been trained well enough. He could see a resurgence of excitement at Snake’s wound as well as his swift sheathing of his blade, but he anticipated whatever might happen next. That was why he struck, his feign at the face—such a wonderful deceit, for so many wished to protect their worthless faces—while he struck out at a much more vital area. Snake did not feel the same glee as Sicarus did when his claws sundered the skin beneath the tawny fur, but he did allow himself the smallest amount of satisfaction. It was good to see he had not gotten rusty over the months.
The wolf stumbled backwards, his arms pinwheeling almost comically. Snake did not stop to notice, immediately sinking into another defensive position. He was ready for whatever else the wolf would have, though it was unnecessary. The wolf was smart enough to know that he would probably die if they continued fighting like this and spat some word that Snake did not recognize before fleeing. The bandanna-wearing coyote pursued maybe a dozen steps, just making sure he wasn’t playing at anything. When he noticed that the wolf was really going back towards the stinking pack it belonged to, he abandoned the chase and returned as quickly as he could to Vieira.
She had moved some since he had last seen her—she must be slowly coming to as he realized that the wolf must have discombobulated her. He knew that she was in pain and needed help, so he did not bother waiting to ask her opinion. He lowered himself to one knee, getting one arm under her shoulders and the other her knees. With a grunt—not to mention the pain that flared up from the wound he had on his collarbone—he lifted her up and immediately began to walk as swiftly as he could back to his own den. His reasoning was that she needed first aid as soon as possible, and he did not want to go test the luck of having someone at the Caves to see her. No, he knew he had what he needed at his own den.
When they arrived, he lay her down gently next to the fire that had gone out, though some of the coals were glimmering still. Good; he wouldn’t have to spark another blaze. He put some pieces of dry firewood on the fire and prodded them with a length of steel—the fire was beginning to crackle and hiss again, and he was sure she would appreciate the warmth. He went to the back of the car, lifting up the trunk where he kept some of the things he wanted to keep protected from the elements. He withdrew one length of cloth, taking it over to the wounded Vieira. He did not offer any condolences for how it might hurt—for that’s what wounds did, of course—but he tried to tie the make-shift cloth bandage around her torso as gently as he could. Once that was done and he was sure she wasn’t going to die or anything, he went back to the open trunk and got another length of cloth. He began to tend to his own wound, waiting to see if she’d come to from her dazed state.
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632.
A hoarse, giddy cry escaped the wolf when his claws came in contact with Snake’s flesh, easily ripping it to shreds—the young warrior did a very good job of hiding it, suppressing it, but it hurt. He ignored the blood that he could feel seeping from the wound. It was not critical, and that was all that mattered. He gave it no mind, keeping himself focused on his opponent. His movements were erratic—if he had been trained, he had not been trained well enough. He could see a resurgence of excitement at Snake’s wound as well as his swift sheathing of his blade, but he anticipated whatever might happen next. That was why he struck, his feign at the face—such a wonderful deceit, for so many wished to protect their worthless faces—while he struck out at a much more vital area. Snake did not feel the same glee as Sicarus did when his claws sundered the skin beneath the tawny fur, but he did allow himself the smallest amount of satisfaction. It was good to see he had not gotten rusty over the months.
The wolf stumbled backwards, his arms pinwheeling almost comically. Snake did not stop to notice, immediately sinking into another defensive position. He was ready for whatever else the wolf would have, though it was unnecessary. The wolf was smart enough to know that he would probably die if they continued fighting like this and spat some word that Snake did not recognize before fleeing. The bandanna-wearing coyote pursued maybe a dozen steps, just making sure he wasn’t playing at anything. When he noticed that the wolf was really going back towards the stinking pack it belonged to, he abandoned the chase and returned as quickly as he could to Vieira.
She had moved some since he had last seen her—she must be slowly coming to as he realized that the wolf must have discombobulated her. He knew that she was in pain and needed help, so he did not bother waiting to ask her opinion. He lowered himself to one knee, getting one arm under her shoulders and the other her knees. With a grunt—not to mention the pain that flared up from the wound he had on his collarbone—he lifted her up and immediately began to walk as swiftly as he could back to his own den. His reasoning was that she needed first aid as soon as possible, and he did not want to go test the luck of having someone at the Caves to see her. No, he knew he had what he needed at his own den.
When they arrived, he lay her down gently next to the fire that had gone out, though some of the coals were glimmering still. Good; he wouldn’t have to spark another blaze. He put some pieces of dry firewood on the fire and prodded them with a length of steel—the fire was beginning to crackle and hiss again, and he was sure she would appreciate the warmth. He went to the back of the car, lifting up the trunk where he kept some of the things he wanted to keep protected from the elements. He withdrew one length of cloth, taking it over to the wounded Vieira. He did not offer any condolences for how it might hurt—for that’s what wounds did, of course—but he tried to tie the make-shift cloth bandage around her torso as gently as he could. Once that was done and he was sure she wasn’t going to die or anything, he went back to the open trunk and got another length of cloth. He began to tend to his own wound, waiting to see if she’d come to from her dazed state.