Redsand Canyon the world is going to break you

@Donovan Azura @Derg (forward dated for tomorrow.)

Night could be mysterious - a shroud, a cover of darkness, perfect for concealing the predatory and vile urges of nocturnal and necrotic alike. But the rising sun and breaking of day would, without fail, shed light upon the aftermath. 

Such was how the day rose to find her. 

The light came first, soft and golden, creeping over the distant peaks of western ranges to color the ravine just beyond the thing's paws in all shade of crimson and purple - like the bruised canvas of its skin. Gently, it encased her, submerging her in warmth wherever the subconscious slumbered. 

Twisted and splayed haphazardly, the corpse appeared to have been dropped unceremoniously - a ragdoll or child's plaything tossed aside, broken and useless. Slumped, head lolled: ripped open, painted red, and left on display for the world. 

Birdsong and the hum of insects would follow, though the creature would not hear, to herald the start of a new day (deceptively like the last) and the end of a hellish night. 

Such was how they would find her, whomever they might be, just feet beyond the borders. A tattered thing, somewhere between lupine and canine, somewhere between life and death.

Donovan pads down the infamous wall of the canyon, head level with his back he stalks forth like the many mountains that creep about these arid lands. Eyes to rival the sun beating down from above they’re heavy and neutral only perking up when there is something of interest in the corner of his eye. Then a black tongue that almost dances along the line of purple hangs comfortably from his maw, surrounded by dangerous, elongated fangs.

He pants wildly to keep his body temperature down as he saunters along the edges of the canyon. His head goes high for only a moment, stopping his seemingly endless stride he sniffs about the air; a certain metallic smell reaches his nose and he knows instantly its blood. Though who’s, he does not know.

He urges himself forward, leaning into a trot he strides along the path to the root of the smell. Just a few meters before him lies a white lump. He isn’t sure what it is at first, so of course he continues to investigate. Now standing over it, he nudges it with a large, dusty paw. Turning it over to see more of its body he dares to inhale a soft breath of astonishment — it’s fucking Awenfen. The beautiful, wispy wolfdog he met long ago at that lake. She is stained in red and his brows furrow at the thought of someone doing this to her. Sure he loves to mutilate things, but he thinks of specifically why. Perhaps for fun.

Still he looks down upon her and continues nudging her, leaning down to listen to her breathing to make sure she’s even alive. Then nudges her again. Hopefully she wakes up, if she doesn’t he’ll easily drape her over his shoulders and bring the smaller back to the healers of the pack. For now he waits for a reaction — if there is one that is.

Two pokes, prodding wherever it was that her mind had fled to. Breath rattled harshly from her chest, a low groan rumbling from its depths - the sound of earth splitting open or storms on the horizon. 

She came to with a scream, or would have if there was anything left of her voice. Instead, a pitiful croak of a yipe was all that escaped her lips, as pallid eyes winced open - one dyed a deep bloodred by damaged vessels. The muscles of her throat crackled in protest, working to release the screams trapped in her foggy mind. 

The druid skittered backwards, eyes wheeling wildly in search - almost blind to Donovan, who she had yet to recognize. 

"Non..non," the word left her, repetitively, as her wispy, red-streaked diadem swiveled this way and that unsteadily - still seeking the pale ghost, a flash of white to signal that he was near.

At last, her head weaved and turned to face her savior, a flinch wracking her as if just realizing he was there.

"Donav," the midwife lilted softly, confused and vaguely panicked, a moment of clarity visible in her gaze. 

And just like that, as quickly as she'd woken, she lost her tenacious grip on this world and slipped into the peaceful blackness once more. 

Sideways she slid, face falling against the sand with a dull grating sound, where she remained - still and silent as catacombs, revealing the crudely carved symbol of a bull's head weeping tears of blood upon her nape.

Derg wasn't far from Donovan these days.
After the..incident.
He didn't want Donovan to break like he had.
Nemisis, in all her twisted glory, was cared for by Donovan, and he really liked her. Perhaps not love, not as yet at least, but they had something.

So when he started to trot towards the borders in the distance, Derg was wonderous.
He picked up his own pace so he didn't lose sight of the distant, brindle man.

And what lay before him was a scene.
A woman, wild, breathing what she could of Donovan's name as she slipped back down to the ground.
Donovan, caring. They knew each other, and someone had attacked the small...thing.

"Should I call for Dove or Auriel?" He quietly asked. Was this something he wanted the rest of the pack to know of?

Donovan isn’t quite as startled with Derg’s sudden appearance as he should be. Internally he questions why Derg was following him. He’ll save that question for later. Now though, he’s lucky to have him. Well he supposes he’s always been lucky to have him. As he begrudgingly takes his honey orbs off of her small form he looks to Derg. 

“No, we shouldn’t have them bring all their supplies out here. Easier to take her  to them.” Is all he gives.

Then he’s bowing down next to her body and slipping his massive head underneath her as gently as he’s able to. Really the process is rough and he looks to Derg to help him gather her on his back more securely. Though after they have her situated, he begins the journey back to the medics. Even with his wounds sending lightening bolts of pain throughout his shoulder, he will tolerate it enough to get the smaller woman to safety.

last from me! (I think? Unless another cameo is needed for some reason.)

Despite being lifted into the air, not to mention the jostling, the ordeal has taken its toll. It's a wonder she could wake at all considering how exhausted and emaciated she is, in addition to the blood loss. 

A few diminutive, nearly silent, sounds of pain leave her whenever a particularly sharp pain stabs her. Like a child prodding a dying creature on the street with a stick. 

The blissful fog of oblivion has taken her, but as Donovan takes her in, her closed eyelids twitch - eyes occasionally rolling back beneath the cover of snowfall lashes. 

Nonsensical whispers leave her lips - soft, Otherworldly murmurs - of dead birds, the dark, and ghosts.

Sorry for the wait, happy to end here

Donovan slipped his head under the woman, and Derg moved in to help, knowing his intention.
Derg gently took the pale scruff and helped slide her in place.
Her wounds were...extensive he'd say.

Donovan's face seemed to twitch in pain.
She was laying directly over his own wounds, but Derg wouldn't comment.
Rather, he'd stand by the woman's head as they walk, ensuring she didn't slip off the brindle back that carried her with such care.
He'd find out the story of their first acquaintance another time.