The Wolf of the Wilds

The Scratch

It hurt to breath, to stand, to sit. Her steps carried the burden of the previous night's activities. There was still blood and scratches all over every inch of skin, and she was reasonably certain that she had a bruised rib. Rolling her shoulders, she took several long drags of air, face twisting, fingers tensed against the table top.

"Bloody moon," she muttered. Dipping a rag into the bowl, she ran the damp fabric over her skin, removing dry flakes of blood from her stomach. It left a pleasant coolness in its wake, almost like taking a swim on a hot summer's day. Only, she hadn't taken a swim, and rather than washing away sweat, she was washing away the caked remains of her own blood. It was a well-practised system as she moved from her stomach, to her chest, to her face, her arms and her legs. By the end, the water was a murky brown, but a little normalcy had been restored.

Laid out on her bed was a loose, red robe. It'd been an investment she'd made while in Semul, but as she tied it up and felt the softness of it, it seemed worth the exim she'd handed over for it. Luxury was something she'd never possessed. Her family had looked down on frivolity, while the days after the Angor's fall had been fuelled by a pure desire to survive. Her years in exile had been isolated, cut off from society and ignoring everything but the barest of essentials.

Today was a day for comfort. She had no intention to train, or hunt, or interact with anyone. She was going to eat, read and sleep. If anyone disturbed her, which was highly unlikely, she'd pay them no mind.

She paused and frowned.

Actually, scratch that. She'd tolerate Adrian if he decided to return to the tower that day. Although, she would be surprised if he felt up to the hike any time before noon. The moon's influence and probably a fair serving of pain was enough to make anyone anti-social.

And that was why she was surprised to hear a faint knock at her front door several minutes later. Pulling herself up to she feet, she shuffled her way downstairs. She pulled the front door open a smidge, to find Adrian looking back at her.

"You look like shit," was her first reaction.

Adrian grimaced and twisted his ring. His skin was ashen, lips pale. "I feel like shit as well. Could you help me?" He spoke quietly with a voice that didn't seem to want to cooperate.

Helena opened the door wider and stepped forward to inspect the damage. Her fingers hovered over the side of his face, not touching. There was blood. Too much and too fresh. "How did this happen?" she whispered.

"I think something must've caught my attention while I was turned. It's recent. The bleeding has slowed, but it was heavy when I woke up."

Helena met his eyes and slid her hand around his wrist, gently tugging. "Come inside and we'll get this...cleaned up."

Upstairs, Helena sat him down on her bed and pulled up a chair. Minimising the wince as she sat, she leant forward and assessed the injuries on his face. Claw marks were dug into his skin, running from his ear down to his chin. A nick had been taken out of his earlobe and was still leaking crimson. As she went about dabbing away the mess, they spoke quietly.

"How was your night?" Adrian asked, scrunching up half of his face as she rubbed his torn-up cheek with a fresh cloth. "Do you have many injuries?"

"Nothing like this. I have small cuts and I've done something to one of my ribs, but it's nothing that won't heal in the next few days," she replied, reaching across to a table and pulling over a jar. She flipped up the fabric wrap on top to check the label and used her teeth to untie the fastening. Inside was a foul-smelling concoction that she slathered over his wounds. "That's antiseptic, leave it on for as long as you can bear."