So close. He was so close to perfecting this weapon. He had learned that it existed by means of a trader, who he promptly ripped off for several bottles of unrefined alcohol so he could try to make the weapon. But, knowing that it existed was far different than knowing how to pull it off, and his attempts thus far had ended in a few unsuccessful tries. First he had tried stuffing dry kindling into the top of the bottle, but when he lit it it just fell into the fluid and extinguished. If he tried to throw it, the kindling would come out of the top and he wasted the bottle and the alcohol. He tried just dropping a spark right into the bottle, but again the fluid was too much and instead of igniting it would just douse the spark. There had to be some way to get this right...
After hours of trying different methods the young wolf grew frustrated, and would have thrown his supplies had they not been fragile and combustible. He was starting to wonder if this could even be done. The stranger had asserted that this weapon had once been a favorite of human militias and home made militant groups, but he was starting to think it was just another lie, or one of the many myths that clouded their knowledge of the human race. In truth, the problem was the fuel and the mixture Scorpius used. The humans had ways of developing and refining oil into gasoline, which was far more potent than the alcohol he was using now.
“Damn it! This is stupid!” he grumbled as he picked up one of the bottles, the fluid inside sloshing around.
For once he was outside of the caverns. For his experiments he had gone to an open place in the Musquodoboit Valley so he would not be bothered by any of his pack, or hurt them should his weapon finally proved viable.
His agitation was palpable as he soaked a cloth with the alcohol, and spilling it on the ground and his hands in the meantime. This would never work, why would a soaked cloth light? Still, he was feeling desperate, so he stuffed the cloth into the mouth of the bottle, shoving it all the way down so it would reach what was left of the alcohol in the bottom, and grabbed his flint and steel. Kneeling over the bottle, he struck the stone and metal together, creating the familiar spark.
To his surprise, the sopping cloth lit instantly, flaring up. The flame thrived and ate through the fabric quickly. He marveled at it for just a second before the fire burned down into the nearly empty bottle. What he wasn't counting on was the alcohol fumes inside the bottle igniting, causing the fluid to light as well and overloading the glass bottle with pressure. He didn't even hear the sound of the bottle exploding until after the fact. The flames burst around him, glass shards projectiled through the air and dug deep into his flesh, dotting him with fresh wounds.
“Ahh!” he cried out as he was thrown back, landing on his back in the dirt. He could smell singed hair, he could smell smoke, he could feel the stinging of the glass that had burrowed deep into his body... and then he looked at his hands. Only seconds had passed, but it felt like his hands had been burning for hours. He flipped over and beat them on the ground, furiously turning them over and over but the flame would not be stamped out like usual. The alcohol he had spilled on them had lit and would not be doused as easily as a normal flame.
Panicking, he thrust his hands into the grass and dropped his body onto them, yowling in pain as he did so. Crushing his burning hands was excruciating, but he knew the only way to kill the fire was to deprive it of air. He singed the fur on his belly but at least he did not burn himself, and when he finally rolled over onto his back the fire was out.
He lay there for a moment while his heart calmed down, holding his hands in close and panting. He could smell the all too familiar, acrid scent of burning flesh. After a moment, he sat up to survey the damage to the area, and saw that a small fire burned where the bottle had been, but as the fuel was used up the fire died out.
“Oh, god,” he muttered as he looked down at his charred hands. He tried to move his fingers but it felt like the already bleeding flesh was ripping open, so he held them still. He leaned forward to get his legs beneath him, and managed to stand on shaky legs, his hands still held close to his stomach. Scorpius knew all too well that if you played with fire you could get burned, but he had grown complacent, thinking he had control of it. Never had he thought about what adding the fuel to the flame could do. How naive he had been.
Help. Help. He needed help. His hands were already blistering, and he had no idea how much glass was in his body. Had it hit anything vital? The pain in his hands was so great that he could not feel the glass. At least it had not hit his face, though a shard had glanced off of his mask dangerously close to his eye – that had been a lucky miss. After standing there stunned for a moment more, he began to walk slowly, in a dazed zig-zag back toward the caverns, letting a pained howl precede him. If there was a healer nearby, he implored them, please come.