[P] [M] oh, my sweet devils daughter.

WARNING: This thread contains images or graphics of an explicitly violent, gory, or racy nature. Sensitive readers are advised to disable images or to read in a text-only format.

Specifically, there are images of: possible graphic description of injury.

for wayne!

Morrigan adjusted her worn satchel, feeling the chafe of the leather against her fur unpleasantly. The thing was practically falling apart, and the Witch felt some unease at continuing to use it to store important things for healing, but until she commissioned another this would have to do.

Today had been another lovely day, bright and full of sunshine and warmth. Now that they were fast approaching June, more and more plants were rooting and blooming and it seemed Morrigans work was endless. Today, she had conscripted another Ashen’s help – the handsome Holly Mckenzie. Usually him and his sister were messing around with the horses, but through some cajoling and promises of payment in bait the low-content coydog finally gave in. Plants were not his expertise, he’d reminded her. Morrigan had just shrugged and retorted with she needed his eyes, not his brain.

At that, with a shrug and a grunt where he really couldn’t argue – after all she was paying him for this service, they set off towards Moosehead lake. A variety of helpful plants grew there, and Morrigan was keen to see what else had made an appearance as they ventured later in the spring. Upon nearing the gigantic lake, she gave him detailed instructions of which plants she was seeking and asked him to keep a look out for strawberries or black cherry trees, both would be needed to start her next batch of wine.

After sending the male off in the opposite direction, Morrigan veered off a path and trotted towards the lake, inhaling the fresh scent of water that blew up the stony shores of the lake. Something familiar pricked her nose and Morr felt panic rising in her chest at the taste of iron on her tongue. Trying not to give in too the frantic feeling rising in her chest, the coyote reasoned with herself. This time, the blood was much fainter, it was subtle and not heavy in the air like it was when she found Freddy. A form was hunched over at the lake side, and she jogged up behind the male before slowing to a stop a few meters away.

“ Are you hurt? I could smell blood coming up to the lake. “ She called from behind him, grasping the strap of her bag in a somewhat anxious manner.

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It was a direct path from the Drunk Tank to Moosehead lake, and it was done with his knuckles held in the palm of his hand. A round of questioning had just taken place and the jowled dog back in his cell was regretting every honest word he'd said, while Wayne was regretting every word of it he'd heard. Yet, as the man's blood stained his shirt in droplets, and his hand throbbed with every pulse of his heart, Wayne was able to stop himself before he went too far. Next time?

Next time would be much more difficult.

The reflected sun sparkled along the lake's surface as he made his way to the water, with a breeze that caressed him gently. A reminder that he needed to cool his hot blood before he did anything with anyone else for a short while. He dropped aside the lake's lapping edge. Knees met the damp earth roughly, and hands warily dipped with pained caution into the cool water. It stung in a fulfilling way. A pain for a pain. A wound for a wound. Within the water's undulating surface, he flexed his hand. He'd have to wait a few days before talking to Laird again, or he'd regret the reminder on his hand.

A tawny ear flicked at the voice that came from behind, Wayne's own attention stolen by the ringing of fury in his ears. An anger that he attempted to cool. The woman at his back was not responsible for this, unlike that damn dog, “Mmm?” Turning his head over his shoulder, after he'd appropriately quelled the fury on his brow, icy eyes found the woman behind him and her satchel of whatever it was she clung to, “N'aw, jus' a scratch,” Wayne's drawl found it's way above the water and through the mud beneath his feet as he rose to divulge his hand to her, “See. Ain't nuthin'.”

What he did show her, unintentionally, was the stains of red on his shirt that slowly made their transformation to black as they dried. The cardinal droplets that ran across his face, as well. It was not clear whether it was his or not, but the heavy stink of that filthy Laird was upon him, and any soul who knew what he'd been up to the last few days could deduce what that might mean.

Turning his hand for her to see, it was clear that the skin there had torn from impact, and fresh ruby filled the gaps between his broken skin and swelled with the water that pooled within. Sure, he was wounded, but not enough for concern. Red dripped to the ground in sparkling beads, “I ain't think we ev'r met proper,” The tone of his voice altered from an aloof disinterest in his own hand, to a bit more interest in herself, "I'dunno if this's proper, but y'can call me Waynescott Wyatt, if y'don't know m'yet. 'Bout 'cherself?”

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He answered quickly, then rose and held out his wounded hand for her to inspect. Instinctively the Witch leaned forward and assessed the wounded, swollen flesh puffing up in aggravation and bloody ichor dripping to the ground in a steady pat-pat-pat. Making a displeased clucking noise with her tongue, Morr sighed and shook her head. “ You are correct, while it isn’t grievous I’d feel better about those wounds if you let me bind them up. A little bit of poultice to relieve the sting and encourage quick healing. I’m sure that’s better then picking at half-infected scabs, wouldn’t you say? “ The female offered, large grey ears turned towards Wayne, whom she recognized now that he turned to face her.

Now that she knew the extent of the injuries, Morrigan took a moment to commit the males appearance to memory. They hadn’t had many interactions, if any – but she knew his name and knew his face and felt sorry she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself prior. Her heterochromic eyes slid down the dark fur of his face to his chest where she noted with some interest the drying blood – presumably, it was from the same source as the red splattered across his muzzle.

Ah. It was Lairds blood, judging by the scent that was now discernable and rolling off of Wayne. It’s not like the restrained dog could defend himself at all, and Morrigan was careful to keep her expression neutral. Did Wayne notice the herbs she had smeared on the worst of his cuts when he was beating his prisoner some more? Hopefully not. At his next question, Morr remembered to smile and nod her head at his introduction. “ I do recognize you Waynescott Wyatt, but you are right in that we have never formally been introduced. Morrigan Archeron, at your service. “ Opening her bag, she dug through it to see what had been left inside. Really, she should be emptying these things before taking them to forage herbs.

Just their luck it seemed, some scraps of clean cloth for bandages lay in the bottom. “ I can wrap those up with what I’ve got here, but if you don’t object I’ll mash up a few herbs to smear on your fingers. “ The more she did it, the better her poultices got and the more experience she gained to pass onto others. It was a win win, really.

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“Wouldn't be th'worse ah'ev'r had,” The response came with a rise and a wriggle of his left hand hand beside the wounded right, the space between his index and ring finger being absent of a whole digit on display for her to see. A slight smirk turned the corner of his maw upward crookedly, a sorry attempt at humor, that quickly faded back into a more stoic expression, “but if ya'insist, ah'll let ya'take care of't,” He relented. He didn't need any more wounds like that missing finger and truth be told, if someone else bound and cared for it, that was one less thing he'd have to worry about.

While his mind was flooded with thoughts, it was probably for the best.

Pale blue found the two-toned gaze of hers as it inspected him further than his hands. Those eyes dropped down from his countenance, to his shirt, and he looked down to follow her trail. Finding what he'd left for to discover by way of his own forgetfulness, he tugged on the bottom of his shirt with his left, and thrummed a hum, “Don't mind this, none, Miss,” He ensured, but whether she would mind or not wasn't exactly up to him.

Their introduction passed, Wayne watched as she dug through her bag. It seemed she'd found what she had been looking for, but what that was, the coydog wasn't entirely sure, “Good plan, Morr'gan Arch'ron,” His accent properly butchering her name, as he went on, “Why don't we head on down to th'Ugly Coyote and patch it up there? I could use a'stiff drink m'self,” It seemed like the proper place for it, anyways. Drink for the pain of body, and for a bit of the mind, and a place with a table and chairs where she could sit and work on a steady surface.

With that, the man moved around her and headed on the way, turning back only to see if she were coming or if he was going to be visiting the bar on his own. In a way, he'd already decided what he was going to do, but a steady look at his hand had him stepping a little more slowly, until she followed along. He didn't want to admit it, but he needed her at the moment, and even though they'd just met, Wayne was willing to put a little bit of trust in an Ashen, again. Whether that was a foolish idea or not, would be told another day.

As they arrived to the bar, Wayne's better hand held the door open for her to enter, from there, he'd let her pick a place that would be best for her to work, “Figure'd this'd be'a better location then aside th'river,” He confessed. A half truth, for sure.

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Morrigan nodded at the males reasoning and did a good job at hiding her grimace at the butchering of her name. It was kind of awkward just standing here without supplies, Wayne was right. “ You may call me Morr, if that’s easier. “ The Witch offered kindly, a small smile curving onto her lips as he moved past her towards the bar’s direction. Was her company so terrible that he needed to be drunk? Or perhaps the alcohol was to ease the bite of judgement worn across the tops of his knuckles. Trailing behind him, Morrigan kept a sharp eye to the plants lining the paths in search of anything new she might have missed. Every so often the Witch would stoop over and pluck a bit of plant matter from here and there, slowing amassing her poultice ingredients as they walked.

His pace was unhurried and for that she was grateful, it made the small bits of color spread amongst the grasses easier to spot. A particularly attractive bloom stood at attention, it’s crisp petals and bright pigment begging to be picked and tucked behind her ear. Humming quietly to herself as they reached the bar, her chin dipped in thanks as Wayne held the door open for her – and Morrigan found herself surprised by the chivalrous gesture. Lips tightened ever so slightly at that thought while her gemstone-hued eyes searched the bar for an appropriate workspace. Two males acting decent of their own accord with no prompting. At complete odds with one another, apparently.

Mirth sparkled in her gaze as she mulled over that thought, leading the duo to a quiet table that was clear and near things the healer may need. Gesturing to an open seat, Morrigan sat down herself and busied herself with rummaging through her bag. Her eyes flicked to Waynes for a moment. “ Is there any particular reason for these injuries? Another Ashen I need to see too, perhaps? “ It was a segue into an explanation from his own mouth if he deemed it relevant enough to share with her, though she had already guessed that he wouldn’t.

A small bowl lay nearby, and Morr pulled it closer after selecting the correct ingredients. Producing a small, rounded bit of bone she set to work mashing up the herbs into a pulp, inhaling sharply at the fresh, grassy scent rising from the bowl.

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