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A direct segue from the last thread? And I’ll bring Cwmfen in after your post; and Cer is allowed to join if she wants, since Slay is her man, ^=^ Backdated May 16th (the actual thread was started on the 15th), dawn.
IT IS INEVITABLE
The diamond thing had fallen easily beneath his efforts—it had almost been disappointing. And its blood had spilled upon the dark grasses, leaving a bloodied stain upon the earth that would wash away in the rain, insignificant upon the history of this world. Before departing that place, the pied brute had sipped from that pool tainted with his blood. And then, with seemingly tireless strength, the brute had taken the diamond marked male, dragging him from that place only to drop him at his pack’s feet. Their weakness would be revealed, their inevitable doom known. And he would do nothing to help them.
Those cruel jaws gripped the other’s ruff, dragging him mercilessly across the lands. Those jaws pierced his skin, that serpentine tongue burrowing into the wounds of the neck to spill that sweet, hot blood into his throat, but they were careful—the male did not need this thing to die yet. This diamond marked wolf needed to deliver a message. No, Death had not yet come to rid the world of this wretched soul. It would be allowed to live, if only to serve this one purpose. And so the male made sure that the thing would live, if only for as long as his message to be delivered. Whatever happened after that was not his concern. Blood loss may call Death to him, or perhaps the pack would continue their viral tendencies and heal the damned thing. The pied Raven crawed once above him before flying ahead to the packlands. That bird would lead Cwmfen nic Graine to the dying thing. She would know. She would be warned. And soon she would come.
The jaws released the black and white thing, dropping his body upon the boarder’s edge. It fell limply from his jaws. He sneered, lingering there for a moment longer. Then he lowered his cruel maw to the thing’s ears. “She is not safe here,” the tenor voice whispered with a sneer. “And your pack will suffer for her absence at my side.” With the last echoes of his voice slithering into the other’s ear, the male rose. “You can tell her that,” the voice commanded, louder now. Then he turned, suddenly falling out of sight. The night was over and dawn was coming, released from the grip of darkness. And he slid into the darkness of the trees like some treacherous snake, slipping out of the pack’s fingers, slipping away from his daughter. And the pestiferous tendrils of the dark came, covering his path, hiding his trail.
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Slaying the Dreamer
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ooc: Thank youuu... ~^.^~
His dreams swirled with confusion and shadows, noises and voices that did not match up with the images his mind provided. For some reason, his neck ached - burned, rather, as did his whole side. His floating mind could not determine why, and instead set the information aside to watch the rare phantasmagoric spectacle. A small figure was beside him, although he could not tell who - or what - it was. I warned you about the coming of the Dark, it chirped, its voice light and dry. Slay nodded in silent affirmation. The Dream had warned him, and he had spoken to Cwmfen about it as well. Cwmfen... wasn't there something he needed to see her about? Why did you try to fight it? You knew you couldn't win. The little creature drew up onto its haunches, curling a fuzzy tail around its hindpaws. It began to groom, silently combing its whiskers as only a hallucination could. Slay shrugged, watching the colours swirling around them. Why did his ruff ache so? He frowned, twisting uncomfortably. He hadn't remembered there being an animal in his previous dream. Usually he would simply watch the night terrors unfold, and then succumb to wakefulness. You didn't want to remember me, so I hid. It was easier for the both of us. You know, since you didn't want to be a seer and all, it muttered, a tiny smile flashing minute fangs. It tilted its head, pointed ears perked towards his dream-self. This was a bizarre one, he thought, staring hard at the shadowy guide. And wasn't there some sort of ceremony required...? If this was one of those wacky spirit animals that Cwmfen had described - Cwmfen again. What was he supposed to tell her...? The little animal smirked playfully, scampering atop his back. It was heavier than he expected. No, it was something else - had he been dropped from somewhere? Why did he hurt so much? The furry animal gripped his ear between its nimble hands, hissing in someone else's voice, She is not safe here... your pack will suffer... tell her that! And with a gasp, the Dahlian felt the dream-world shatter as he resurfaced into consciousness.
He was... home? He could smell the familiar scent-markers of the borders, the sweet aroma of flowers within their rich fields, the individual trails of their scouts and hunters and puppies. How did he get home? Last night, he had been restless, he had gone for a run - Corvus. Slay jerked upright instinctively, and then flopped back to the ground, grunting from the painful effort. He had stumbled across Corvus Vendetta in the dead of night, and the crow-wolf had torn him to shreds. Somewhere inbetween, Slay had managed to find the strength to shift, but it had not been enough to win. Or deal any damage at all. For whatever reason, the powerful Korean brute had chosen to rough him up and let him live, and then drag him back home again... He was to serve as a warning, bleeding and broken.
Growling deep in his throat, the Secui struggled again to stand, his talons digging deep into the topsoil with the effort. He was unused to the power of the halfling form, but he found it strangely suitable; increasing his size and strength was always a desirable effect. His black and white fur had grown lank and shaggy, giving him a feral appearance coupled with the gratuitous smears of dirt and blood. He knew the bites and slashes littering his body were not serious, but the amount of blood loss certainly was, leaving him dizzied and weak. His eyes were still crusted shut, but he could tell by the silence around him that the sun was just beginning to rise. A border scout should find him soon. Sighing, the arctic wolf collapsed back onto his belly, resting his shaggy chin on his wide paws. He needed a healer to clean and stitch him up, but... it was truly shameful, the state he was in. He had never doubted his strength before. Now he knew - he could not protect his loved ones. He was useless to them.
"Is anyone out there...?" he called hoarsely, throat dry. He didn't have the energy to howl, but someone would hear his weak cries regardless. He had to warn his pack.
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
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The woman slept quietly in her den. She had returned only a few hours before, but the woman was used to her light sleeping habits, requiring only a few hours to feel rejuvenated. It would have been better to sleep for longer periods of time, but there was something that made her restless. And yet, now, in the dead hours of the night when the world was stilled for the coming of dawn, she slept in silence. The woman’s dreams were quiet and she drifted in the soft darkness with only the soft, wordless whispers disrupting her silent mind. Her breathing was soft and untroubled as she lay upon her back, having not bothered to shift back down to her lupus form. But as she lay there, the darkness began to take shape. The Dreaming was vague and sudden, the warning brought merely upon the frantic batting of a raven’s wings, drawing the darkness along. The Dream came swiftly with the call of the Raven who carried a different voice than the one eyed bird that followed her. The voice called urgently, carrying the pelt of a skunk—
She awoke the moment before the Raven began to call. Her white eyes were alerted as she rose, moving as if she had merely been lying and not sleeping. Her body moved up the tunneled path and into the open air. She sought the Raven that had sounded an alarm, its inky black eye turned toward her, wide and empty. Then it took off. The woad marked warrior instinctively ran after it, taking up her sword as she went by. There was an unusual amount of urgency within the pied Raven, and her Dream had warned of something near. Her movements were swift but silent as she flew through the trees. The Raven lead her to the boarders—she wondered who was there. A quiet feeling of dread began to flow over her chest, but she knew that it must not be her father that she would find there. No... It had to be something else—or someone else.
A large form was lying at the boarders. The thick scent of blood reached her maw, carried to her by the soft wind. At first, although she recognized the scent immediately, she did not recognize the shape she know beheld. The woman paused, uncertain—perhaps this was some trick? But as she neared the prone form, the diamond marked coat—black and white like a skunk—was clear. She was shocked initially because of the blood, but for a moment the woman considered the size of her friend. This was not his lupus form. For a moment the woman was silent, the white orbs briefly going over his body and the wounds, but there was too much blood for her to see anything. The woman knelt at Slay’s side, digging her blade into the earth as she reached down to gently touch his large shoulder, her hands sticky with his blood. There was so much that she could not smell the scent of his attacker. "Slay," the quiet melody called gently. "Who did this to you?" That was the first thing, as warrior, that she wanted to know.
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Slaying the Dreamer
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Time passed, although it was difficult to judge how much. Slay felt a cool morning breeze ruffle his fur, chilling his exhausted body. He tucked his nose beneath his tail to rest, as he could not seem to stand. He wanted to sleep forever. But just like last night, his wearied mind refused to shut down. Morning was beginning a new day; he would have to limp home, face his mate's reaction, try not to scare the little ones with his garish appearance before crawling into bed, to let himself mend. The gouges were still sluggishly bleeding, matting his shaggy fur with their dark clots. He wanted to plunge into the ocean, wash it all away in the sting of saltwater. He let his mind wander thus, until he heard the soft footfalls of a werewolf approaching.
With an effort, he prised his eyes open, blinking as the pale sunlight flooded his vision. Pupils dilated to focus on a sword, springing up from the earth like a small metal tree. Confused, he tried to turn his head, to see who it was. The heavy stench of copper now burned in his nostrils, overpowering any other. But he felt her fingers brush against his hard-muscled shoulder, heard her unmistakably melodic voice, and tried to relax, knowing he had found exactly who he needed to. Licking his dry lips, the Secui tried to speak, his hoarse voice cracking partway through. "...It was him. He told me he's still waiting for you... that he's threatening pack members until you go to him..." He coughed, parched throat rejecting his attempts at communication. No names were necessary; he assumed that Cwmfen did not have many enemies here, especially not as powerful and arrogant as Corvus. The crow-wolf seemed to know that his daughter held status in this pack, that she was diligent in her duties. He could easily wait on the borders to snatch her up, but instead insisted that she would come willingly. Slay felt a prickling wave of shame, that the despicable male had beaten him so thoroughly. He had done his best to resist, but the similarities between Cwmfen's father and his own were paralyzingly close, enough that the hesitation nearly cost him his life.
"I failed the pack," he mumbled, baring his teeth at the ground. Would Haku have done better? Would Cwmfen? Would Kol? They had numerous defenders, but one on one, he did not know if any of them were safe now. He had been toyed with and humiliated, forced to shift out of necessity and now dumped like an unwanted corpse, painted in blood to scare the others. He couldn't even coerce his trembling legs to drag himself into hiding, to slink away and be forgotten. He suddenly regretted the size of this larger form; it made him a much bigger target to mock. He didn't have the energy to change back - he knew he would pass out, like he had earlier that night. What a pitiable situation.
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
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Her hand recoiled as if his words had burned her. She was silent as she managed to shift slightly backwards, her eyes watching the diamond marked pack member with a silent intensity. Perhaps she had inferred incorrectly, but when she took the time to sift through the heavy scent of blood, she found that her father’s scent was indeed upon him. This was a threat—she knew how the crow wolf functioned. The warrior was silent, her eyes looking out to the trail of blood, her jaws clenching with some heavy emotion that painted her mind with blood. But with a soft sigh, the woman nodded to herself, a quiet fear flickering within the depths of those white eyes. She knew what should be done and what must be done, and yet she felt that it was not the time. There was a restlessness within her, but she knew that she must help her friend. Quietly, her hand returned to the secui’s shoulder, neither disgusted nor pleased by the blood upon upon her hands. She knew what must be done here as well.
The woman shook her head at his words—it would not be the last time she would hear such words. "No, you have not failed us," the soft melody replied, her tone ambiguous. But she did not believe that Slay had failed them. "You are still alive, able to fight another day." There was a slight pause as if she wished to continue but could not decide whether she truly did. At length the woman said, "If anything, it is I who am failing." It was, after all, her father that had done this. It was she who her father had come for—no one else. The people he had wounded—Ezekiel, Onus, and now Slay—had all paid a price for her, and she would repay them by doing her duty. She must defend the pack. And yet, for some reason, her father eluded her. What was his purpose? She could not understand. It made her job very difficult.
"Can you rise?" His secui form was large and heavy—she would not be able to provide much help. While she never used her own secui form, she could shift to it to help support him, but otherwise there was not much else to do. It was part of being a female, she supposed. "I’ll take you home." Cercelee would want to know. She would want to know of Slay’s wounds and of the threat that had now come to her pack. With a soft sigh, almost of despair, the woman rose, taking her sword from the ground. It would be a long trek to the church from here, especially for the wounded male. But he must be strong enough to rise—she would lead the way. She would speak to him if she had to to keep him focused. And that was all that could be done for now. Her father would have to wait a little longer—or perhaps it was she who must do the waiting. Above, in the trees, the pied raven clicked his beak and took off in the coming dawn.
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Slaying the Dreamer
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OoC: You can PP them to the church if you want to - it might be a long trip!
Cwmfen understood him, her fingers retreating from disgust or rejection or whatever it was that plagued her behind her ghostly-white eyes. Slay ground his teeth, frustrated that he could not have returned with better news. He knew if it was his father that had returned, threatening his packmates, he would be ecstatic to see the man's head on a pike. His heart thudded sluggishly in his chest, worn out from the wild adrenaline high that had kept him moving. Cercelee, what would Cercelee say? It hadn't been that long ago when she was the one returning home late, plastered in blood from a fight. But it wasn't her blood - she had been unscathed. And he still had the gall to reprimand her, making her promise to stay safe for his sake. Oh, the hypocrisy... She would have the right to kick him out of their home. He wouldn't be able to hunt for days, maybe more than a week - Cer would be stuck feeding him alongside her cousin's children. Maybe Cat or Cath would want to keep him company, but probably not. He couldn't seem to keep his mind from wandering all over - it was hard to focus on the present, when he didn't want to be there.
"Don't try and blame yourself," he wheezed, lips curving into a half-hearted smile. "Had you been there, you would have fought, and fared better than me, I might add. I failed because I let cowardice..." His voice trailed off, eyes darkening. It would take a while to get over this new hurdle - knowing that there was fear in his soul, that he could not defend others with such a glaring weakness in his quintessence. He had always avoided conflict, but that had been by choice... hadn't it? It wasn't because of fear... Or so he had thought, before last night. Now he was questioning himself all over again.
Could he stand? The easy answer was 'no', but Slay was a stubborn beast, and now stinging from his utter defeat. He could not give in to self-pity, even if he had been revealed as a weaker creature than he used to believe. Closing his eyes to focus on the arduous task before him, the shaggy Secui ground his talons into the soil, inhaling a deep breath to prepare. He had tried before, but not as hard as this. He needed to go home, and no one could carry him there. Baring his teeth in a pained grimace, Slay forced his trembling limbs down, locking them into a standing position. His breath came more quickly than before, ragged and shallow, but he did not cry out. He could stand. "Take me home, Cwmfen... I want to rest," he growled, trying to ignore the half-scabbed gash on his forehead slowly reopening, trickling gore down his muzzle. He knew he was a mess; he just wanted it all to go away.
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
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Okay~ Here we go, and Cer can come in now, ^=^
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A light smile flickered across her maw, almost wry for her silence. Indeed, it was not entirely her fault that her father had come, that her father had attacked those about her. She did not control the mind or actions of the crow wolf and never would—she did not have that kind of power. But she had come to these lands, to Dahlia, to run from him. And because of her presence, the pied brute was using those about her as warnings, threatening her. And she had done nothing.... Was that not enough to take the blame? This conflict was no longer about her. It was about the pack. It was about the lives of those around her and the potential victims. Her life meant very little in the light of it all. She was a mere life form within the scope of the world, and the world would continue to turn without her. Her purpose was to protect the pack—that was her duty. She wondered to herself: what weakness brought this defeat? But she could not yet understand enough to answer her own question.
The woman’s ears pricked forward. "Fear is not the same as cowardice," the soft, alto melody replied, almost sharply. No, Slay was not a coward. She was the one who had run from Corvus, seeking to hide here within these lands. There was a soft sigh, though that sigh held within it ambiguity. Fear was imperative for survival, but it was something else also: an emotion. "Fear is what makes us different from him. He feels nothing, but we have the ability to feel everything." Her white orbs sought the male’s gaze. "Even if fear stopped you, you are not a coward. Fear can be overcome, if you learn how." It was a thing that warriors must be able to do.... The woman shook her head at herself. And yet here she stood with a fear she could not yet overcome. The black fae watched as the male struggled to rise, and although she could feel his weariness shudder in the air, he surmounted it. The woman nodded silently, a smile upon her maw. "Let’s go."
She lead him quickly, but not too quickly, making sure that he was no more than a step behind. Occasionally the woman would break the silence, speaking of things that she had seen and of the threat of Brennt. It was difficult for the silent woman to maintain a one-sided conversation, especially because she was often a silent creature. But she felt that speaking to Slay, even if he did not respond, would help take his mind off of the pain and weariness his body would be feeling. At one point, the woman spoke of Dreaming, remembering his curiosity of it. If he could Dream, she supposed aloud, it would different from her own Dreaming, for she followed a different diety. And then, at last, the Church was in view. With relief, the woman lead the Head Hunter to the door. The warrior’s fist pounded upon the wood. "Cercelee," the alto song rang loudly. Please be home, she thought as her hand reached for the handle.
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The pounding on the door caused her to wake with a jump, eyes popping wide open and hand clutching at the air. Once the strong beating of her heart quieted in her ears her mind came to recognize Cwmfen’s voice. Rising on two legs, for the work of the day had required her to be fully shifted, Cercelee strode out of the bedroom and through the kitchen to the door, sleeping falling away from her with each footstep. Silently she prayed the pups in the next room had not been awaken, or if they had that they not move, for she knew not what kind of emergency greeted her on the other side of the door. She only knew that by Cwmfen’s urgency there was something to greet her on the other side.
Pulling open the door, Cercelee’s eyes met Cwmfen’s, her mouth opened for to ask for an explanation but the words never made it past her lips. Rushing past her Adonis, Cercelee was kneeling at no time by Slay’s frame, her hands cradling his head, her snowy pelt soaking in the crimson that seeped from her mate. “Slay? Slay? What happened?” Worried eyes turned back to Cwmfen, her friend, hoping that whatever one of them said could make it better, but she knew it wouldn’t. There had been times when she had faced a mangled wolf before, those half starved, those half dead, and never had she blinked an eye. Now her mind and heart seemed so disjointed, she was frozen, plastering herself against the male because she couldn’t think clearly on what to do. All she could manage to think was how very strange it was to touch him when she was shifted, and when he too was out of his lupus form.
Table by Tammi!
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Slaying the Dreamer
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The quiet warrior understood. And her words made sense, too, even to his pain-numbed brain - that no fear was insurmountable, that it took a conscious effort, that it was better to feel that than nothing at all. It was true, that Corvus appeared to feel nothing. His flat soulless eyes seemed to crinkle in amusement in Slay's disjointed memories, mocking him at every step of the way. For now, he needed to focus on the task at hand - the seemingly endless walk to his home, to rest. He nodded silently to Cwmfen, assenting to their task.
When he thought back on it later, he honestly could not remember how he got home. His stumbling, shambling steps, pulling uncomfortably on the scabbing wounds, flashing little pinpricks of pain through his battered limbs, everything muddied his thoughts and eventually he tuned it all out. Blanked his mind, walked home in his sleep. Every so often, he would catch a faint glimmer of the raven-haired Warrior's voice, calling him forward, speaking to him of whatever she could. He would truly owe her for the effort she put forth, even thought he knew he would try to do the same for her if their roles had reversed. His bleary mind wondered offhandedly whether or not this time he spent with Cwmfen would make Cercelee jealous... She had been in the past, after all, but he had to hope she trusted him better now. As his drifting thoughts obscured his surroundings, his paws mechanically stepped one in front of the other, and before he knew it, they were standing in the shadow of the church.
Someone pounded on the door, and then it creaked open, words being exchanged throughout. Slay's fuzzy thoughts were failing him, dizzy with the lack of blood in his system. He didn't get a chance to clean up - he must look awful, he thought sadly, seeing Cercelee's panicked eyes as if from afar. It's not as bad as it looks, he wanted to reassure her, but his dry throat could barely manage a croak. Shaking his head slowly from side to side - he couldn't explain, it was too embarrassing anyway - he leaned against his mate, inhaling her delicate scent now tarnished by his blood. He didn't see her shifted very often, although he knew she had to when it came to pack meetings and "official" stuff. She was always very conscious of the fact that he did not, could not. Now by accident, he had gone halfway... he still didn't know how to push forward and attain the two-legger form, but perhaps after he had rested, she could tell him how to. He just wanted to apologize for worrying her. A low whine caught in his throat, a pitiful sound from the big male. He didn't want her to be angry.
I've got soul but I'm not a soldier
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Her hand recoiled from the door. Relief washed over her when the door opened. It occurred to her then, when the smells of the church rushed passed her, that the pups would be inside. It would not do for the pups to see one of their guardians in such a state, but it was too late to retract the sound of her knocking now. The white orbs fell intently upon Cercelee as her form came into view, shadowed in the night. It seemed as if she were going to speak, but the sight of Slay silenced her. Swiftly the warrior stepped aside, watching in silence as the Rosea cradled the head of the secui male, the pure whiteness of her fur tainted by the blood coloured black in the darkness. And there was a lot of blood upon the male. His ability to walk, though greatly labored as it was, told the warrior that the wounds had not been deep (and although Cwmfen new very little of healing, she knew how to ascertain the severity of a wound). The woad marked warrior knew that Corvus had made those wounds deliberately.
The Rosea turned to the warrior. "He was attacked by my father." There was a slight pause in her hushed speaking—had she told the Rosea of her past? Perhaps now was the time; it was better to be late than sorry, or perhaps she was already sorry. "I don’t know where it happened, but there was a trail of blood leading to where I found him at the boarders." Slay had come to her in a Dream, waking her from her sleeping. Or, the woman thought suddenly, had he called her? She knew that the male had been some sort of dreamer in a distant pack, but his mistreatment had lead to a mental blockade, a suppression. The warrior wondered suddenly if that blockade had been broken by the sudden shift from lupus to secui. But now was not the time to dwell on such things. Blood loss would soon drain the diamond marked male of his last reserves of strength.
Gently, woad bound fingers touched the Rosea’s shoulders, tentatively seeking to break up the couple’s embrace. "Let’s take him inside and clean him up," the quiet alto suggested gently. Her voice was still that hushed sound as she sought to keep the pups asleep, if they were still asleep. The white eyes of the Adonis sought the cerulean orbs of her leader. "I will tell you the rest later, but now you must help Slay." Delaying any longer would not help the male, no matter how much he would revel in his mate’s touch and presence. There was much to explain, she thought, and other news to convey. But first they must clean Slay up so that he would be allowed to rest and his body allowed to begin the healing process. It was dangerous to allow him to stand any longer. The warrior stepped back to allow the Rosea and the Hunter through, willing to follow lastly into the church and shut the door.
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The gentle touch woke her out of the trance, the panicked state of helplessness. The explanation had drifted through her consciousness but it hadn’t connected to anything, hadn’t made sense. Cwmfen had a father? Yes, of course everyone had a father. Cercelee would recall the warrior’s words and wonder at them later, but she was too concerned with the state of the male leaning on her to question them now. Whatever the threat was, it wasn’t important. The only important thing was to get Slay taken care of, which Cwmfen now directed her Rosea to do. Nodding, she rose from her position and helping the male, entered into the church.
Once inside she was in control of herself again, her actions. Helping him into the small bedroom, she mechanically begun to tear up the worn sheets that they sometimes slept upon. Long, thin strips of fabric, she used her sharp claws as the only instrument to shred the cotton cloth. If someone’s claws had done that to her mate, surely hers would suffice to make bandages for him? Moving her eyes to the Adonis who had followed her in, she swallowed hard. “Do you think any of them need stitching?” Cercelee remembered, it seemed ages ago, Naniko stitching up her own wounds. Yet Cercelee was no healer, she could not know which wounds needed to be addressed most pressingly, except for how much they bled. Cercelee grabbed up one of the strips of fabric and held it against a wound, slowing the bleeding as the liquid clotted against the cloth. “Will you help me bandage him?” Her voice was calm, normal once again, but she shook on the inside.
Table by Tammi!
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The Cercelee seemed to respond to that gentle touch that was given. The warrior did not yet know how severe the wounds would be. She knew only that already the diamond male had lost much blood and that it was necessary to help him immediately. The Rosea rose, leading the bleeding council member into the church that was shared by both of the wolves. The Warrior followed from the rear, closing the door quietly as she remembered the pups that should still be sleeping within. Once inside, the warrior’s gaze swept over the place she had never seen, but she marveled only momentarily at the strange place of a god that she did not worship before she had followed the white leader into a dark room. The woad marked female paused at the door, allowing the woman to lead her mate to the bed. The quiet female did not want to intrude in a place that was so private.
The white Rosea seemed more collected now, but the warrior knew that she would be less certain beneath the calm exterior. The black female was still a naturally timid creature, and she did not want to intrude upon any circumstance. She did not want to interrupt Cercelee’s need to heal the male that she loved; she would have been fine leaving had the Rosea asked. But instead, the warrior simply stood there, perhaps even awkwardly, her eyes wandering to the wounded male that her father had attacked. And she watched momentarily as Cercelee began to tear the sheets, but when the silence was broken, the woman felt that it was okay to enter the room. Stepping in quietly, the woman walked over to where Slay was laying. Carefully, the warrior ran her hand through his fur, finding the many cuts and gashes. But all of them were superficial as if Corvus had taken care to muss this male enough to simply bleed to death. "I don’t think any stitching will be required," the alto voice assured quietly. As the Rosea approached with the strips of cloth that had been torn, the white orbs looked up.
A quiet smile flickered across her maw in the dark room. "Of course," the woman replied, and reached for some of the cotton strips. She started on one of the wounds upon his chest, though there were many upon his neck and some on his face. Deftly, the warrior, who was familiar with wrapping wounds (although she never did wrap her own wounds), began to securely bind the wounds, weaving them occasionally so that they would stay and tying them when she reached the end of the strip. When black warrior paused for a moment, looking up to the blue eyed Rosea who worked diligently upon he rmate. "I’m sorry that this happened, Cercelee," the soft melody apologized as if this were somehow her fault. Over and over again, she knew that it was not her fault. But it was her presence that drew the crow wolf near, and it was her resistance to him that moved him to attack this wolf. "I did not mean for this to happen." She had not expected the crow wolf to have found her.
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