Blackbeak Bluff apricot

apollyon is in critical condition. his face has been bitten from forehead to left jawline, tearing the eyelid on that side and barely missing his eye. he is studded with several oozing bite marks from throat to shoulders. he has several broken ribs on the right side and his right clavicle is fractured. he is hypothermic and is losing blood quickly from his wounds. he has the rest of this IC day/night and will die after without medical intervention. apollyon is also killable in this state! set immediately after this!

a raven plucked at a bloodstained tuft of fur along the silent face of the collapsed wolf. 

the prodding beak, checking to see if this feast of carrion was indeed dead, instead elicited a low moan.

the raven made a brash noise and retreated to wait.

there was no part of apollyon that he could move without dumping himself back into oblivion. even now he drifted in and out of consciousness, feeling the tackiness of blood gluing shut his eye as it slowly froze in a widening puddle beneath him.

no coherent thought was left to apollyon, and the ravens inched closer as he fell back into the merciful depths of insensibility.

She followed the ravens at first. It was another game. The instinct of the wolf to run alongside the birds was there, but Wilwarin was no hunter, she did not know where the urge came from; only that the birds were beautiful when the sun touched their feathers and made the black bloom with oil-slick blues and greens.

When one landed in the snow she thought the game had changed, and with silent laughter pantomimed from her gaping smile, she raced to meet the bird and initiate a game of tag, or to see what had drawn it down from the sky.

The game ended abruptly after that.

The man had half a face. The blood was thick; she had smelled it way back at the start of her run and thought nothing of it. The ravens scavenged, that was all.

It was a shock to see one of her own kind being plucked at.

Wilwarin felt bile rise in her throat and she expelled it hot against the earth, and even then she knew she had a decision to make - and threw her head up instinctively to call for Easy!

Forgetting her silence. Cursing it, as the emptiness of the action descended across her. She was afraid for the man; what good could she do to help him? There was still breath in his body and she could see him move with it. The raven croaked a sound at her.

And with a surprising rage she flew at the bird, snapping and vengeful, to chase it off, and immediately after as her face softened she tried to clean away the blood upon that ruined face. What did she know? Kukutux had taught the children of Lotë something.

As she dredged this from her memory she frantically began to work what poor magic she could summon, and all the while was full of a poignant self-loathing that had been unlocked by this moment.

thanks for joining! tempted to go hardcore mode where he has to fight infection for 5 days D: he's unconscious and all urrrs

cold blood ran into apollyon's eyes.

it seemed he saw only the fluttering wings of a thousand moths, stars congregating around a vaguely wolfish face.

they shifted, and he saw a woman's voice gazing down at him.

wolf dream.

wolves dreaming.

what else was there?

only pain. only bleakness. the demon could not even remember the face of the one who had done this. only the image of the heavy body falling backward from the cliffs remained.

apollyon exhaled and returned to the lightless blessed dark, surrendering all to the vision of paleness and starlight.

The Coyotl had smelled the blood and seen the ravens. He was disappointed but not surprised to learn he was not the only one. Two wolves; the white wolf was tending the one who bled. Wary of her and any others who might be nearby, Sorcerer kept alert and distant as he loitered hoping to go unnoticed.

What could she do! The thought of leaving this poor man to his wounds, even to forage for supplies, felt like the wrong thing. She tried to bed down next to him and thought maybe that was wrong, or hurtful, and got up after a beat to try something else - but thought she caught movement in her periphery.

Was there a beast out there? Whatever had caused these wounds - did it lurk nearby? If it was here and hunting the man, Wilwarin would have to protect him. Her lips pursed in a silent whine; her tail went low, almost tucking to her belly, her whole body a tangle of worry.

Maybe she should try to wake him? Get him moving? Oh, but he was so hurt! She paced around him but her attention flickered to every scraping branch, every whistle of wind, agitated and on high alert. If only she could call for help! Wilwarin had to do something.

She began to scrape at the earth; there were some plants close-by she could at least use to pack some of the wounds, and she hurried, having never seen so much blood before; the feeling she was being stalked did not abate as she worked to free these weeds and work them to his wounds.

The white wolf showed no signs of leaving the injured. Her distress almost suggested that she knew him, but then the socialness of wolves was sometimes peculiar.

Having observed medical practice before, Sorcerer briefly thought she might leave to search for herbs or otherwise, but her efforts to dress his wounds took her nowhere at all and her twitchy movements conveyed how alert she was. With his presence possibly having been detected and with little reason to think there was much opportunity for him here, the red coyote quiet took his leave. Perhaps he would return later to see if the male succumbed to his injuries or if the white wolf was gone.

Perhaps not. He was, if nothing else, a creature of whims.