Bramblepoint We’re going to your place

Setting: Evening, sunset — 19:00
Weather: Warm, very light breeze, clear skies.

Referencing wounds from Nyra in this thread.

Santi barely escaped death only some days ago. The pale beast known as Nyra nearly slit his throat and strung him up like a pig for slaughter. He’s been humbled horribly and maybe he’d learn his lesson. Or perhaps not. It usually takes at least three bad decisions to learn his lesson and that’s only the first. He remembers laughing sadistically even at his own defeat. His hubris isn’t so warped to believe he’d been anything but beaten within an inch of his life. The sharp pain of the jagged scars marring his face still burns like hell fire even days later. His throat had almost been split open and he finds it painful to speak, his usually smooth voice is gravelly and every time he swallows he can’t help but wince from his injuries. 

Again, he’d been humbled. Now as he stalks through this forest, silvery eyes squinting from the harsh sunset shining through the trees, he reenacts the fight within his mind. Wincing from his injuries from every move. 

His face is absolutely ruined, jagged, bloody scabs crisscross every which direction. Splitting his lip and showing dangerous teeth. There’s a multitude of deep gashes across the top of his snout so deep he can feel air blowing from the wound as he breathes. His tongue has been split about an inch in at an odd diagonal angle. He looks like he got mauled by a bear and he might as well have been. He doesn’t mourn his injuries. Well, all but one; the loss of his left eye. Two deep gashes move from the crown of his forehead, down his brow, and skimmed right down his eye. She sliced right into his pupil, instantly blinding him. It irritates him so seriously he can do nothing but keep it closed. When it heals his eye would be partially deformed and the pupil a milky white just as the silver of his irises. Not only did she take his eye, but she almost sliced his throat. The inch deep gash sliding diagonally across his throat from underneath his jaw down the column of his neck. It hurts to move. It hurts to live, but the pain excites him, trains him, hardens him. 

So he moves stiffly through the forest. Searching for anything or anyone who might have the whereabouts of his mates after finding nothing in the haunted woods but an ass kicking. He won’t stop until he finds them.

it takes her just a little over a year to return to lands her mother once roamed, in search of nobody and nothing in particular. the loner life of solitude did not faze the young woman too much... but when it came to considering what the future held for her, isolation did not feel appealing in the slightest. thus, with a small pocket of poisons and herbs wrapped tightly in her jaw, she ventured inland with very little notion as to where she intended to go. 

upon her gaze befalling the hunkered stranger, instinctively do her ears pull back and the girl squints apprehensively. it winces as it lumbers on through the bramble and bush, and she gravitates slowly forth -- intrigued by the injuries it bore. scylla observes the scars splashed across his hide, putting the pieces together as the metallic scent of dried blood and slowly closing wounds begun to fill her nostrils. had she not discovered her father in such a state no less than a dozen times before? the stranger even bore the similar slash across the throat that she had never seen her father without, and she cannot help the audible snicker that passes across her lips. was this an injury only dumb men sustained? 

scylla prances forth, unable to see the beaten man as a threat in any capacity. she too was a towering creature to behold, if not slightly leaner. interesting the man in his path, she plants herself directly before him and drops the bundle of herbs at her feet. only then does she see notice his eye. "you look like you hurt." as blunt as it was, it was true. he looked like he was narrowly surviving infection, let alone the pain of his injuries.

The reaper that was once born and held against his will in a human fighting ring strives in the wilderness now. Or he used to. When he was a part of the Nightwalkers he thrives greatly. Even making such strong connections as to obtain two mates. The same mates he’s come back to find and claim after selfishly abandoning them after the fall of said pack. 

Now though, he is back to his stand-offish, sadistic self. He will stay this way until he has his mates in his grasp once more. Though the Spaniard’s mood is usually sour, it’s more so now with the abundance of wounds littering his once handsome face. The extent of his wounds are gruesome and the sad truth is, is that he will die from infection if he does not get them treated. Though a very prideful creature, he isn’t often stupid. Key word: often. 

Initially he believes he’s alone. That is until he feels the watchful eyes of a hidden being glancing upon his pitiful, injured form. It is only confirmed further when a tall woman is stepping directly in front of him. He bristles automatically. This stranger stands directly before him to intentionally disrupt his search, to halt him in his advances towards his mates. 

Yet, with his head hung even with his shoulders he stares straight at her. Silvery eyes sweeping shamelessly over the charcoal black of her pelt, not missing the cream diamond dusting beneath her neck like a target — bite me, bite me here! His lip twitches threateningly, but he doesn’t growl. Her voice reaches his ears and she states the obvious. Yes, he is obviously hurt and yes he’s definitely in pain. How observant of her. 

He’d stilled in his waking some time ago and he huffs out a scoffing breath at her. “Obviamente.” He says blandly. His usually smooth voice is gravelly from disuse. “Sí amiga, how did you come to that conclusion.” His words are partially slurred from his heavy accent as he regards the herbs at her feet carefully, almost regretting automatically being an asshole to her. It’s obvious she might be some type of medic and it just so happens he could use that as of right now. 

Santi does a double take. “You are a medic then, yes?” He asks then, tone more neutral than his last smartass remark.

the stranger's retort is off and condescending, but she is more or less unfazed by the attitude. it was the kind of thing she simply didn't find herself caring deeply about, for she found that true disrespect came in the form of ones actions rather than their words. still, her willingness to observe his injuries is unwavering in its curiosity and wordlessly does she unravel the bundle of herbs and begins to sift through its contents. to his question, she replies with a short, "no." internally, she smirks. two could play that game. pulling chervil root from the stash, scylla tosses it in his direction with a simple request, "for the infection you stench of. eat it." but it would not be enough to treat his eye, a severe injury that would only fester based on its extent. 

scylla pauses a moment, wondering if it would be too bold to command him to open his eye. it did not seem like the kind of thing she would get killed over, but yet, one could never be too sure. vaati had made sure she remembered that. but yet, she considers the fact that if he did not wish to succumb to his injuries (as he most likely would without her aid) he would be smart to obey. "you will need to open your eye." her calculating gaze hardens upon the other, waiting to see if the stranger would oblige or refuse. a wolf in pain was unpredictable, and a man in survival mode was something she knew to be wary of

Surprisingly this sleek shewolf isn’t jostled by his smartass mouth. He’s actually quite surprised in fact and he wonders how far he’d have to push her in order to get a reaction out of her. He likes getting reactions, especially ones of anger or perhaps some good ol’ banter of the hateful kind. Still, her silence is palpable until she’s offering back a no in reply to his question. Okay, it seems she has a sense of humor or something like it. He almost had the thought to smirk but he knows it would hurt too much. So only for a second his uninjured eye would flicker with his usual sadistic mirth. 

She throws some plant at his paws and demands he eats it. He can’t and will not say no. He does want to sigh when she says he smells of infection. Just as he thought. How disappointing. He drops his head to consume the plant root and crunches it between his teeth, lip wrinkling some at the pain and taste. 

When he hears her voice speak up once more he’s looking back to her. Fuck. He doesn’t want to open his eye. He wants to roll about on the floor and have a tantrum like a pup at the idea of having to do it. He hums his disapproval at her hard gaze and decides to pad closer to her, probably a bit closer than necessary, and plants his haunches to the ground. Sitting before her his brow furrows and he winces when tries to open it. Eyelid fluttering open and trying to blink away the pain, but it doesn’t stop. Sooner or later, he’s able to open it for her and he awaits her inspection of the ruined optic. There’s no way he’ll be able to recover it, he knows this, but at this point he just needs to make sure he doesn’t die from infection. Something he hopes this woman will be able to help him with. Hence his abnormally obedient demeanor.

in truth, scylla was not easily pushed. her temperament was often ill-mannered, but she held with her an eerie patience that stemmed from her father's own lack thereof and her mother's cool resilience. as the man moves forth and drops before her, she cannot help the sense of achievement that fills her. the exchange of commanding what she wanted and receiving it from the another pleased the wraith greatly -- though she does not show the satisfaction it brings. that was not the point, the young melonii reminds herself and moves on from the thought.

he cracks his eye open, and her own optics widen, observing with earnest the gruesome damage inflicted. the iris was shattered, the whiteness reduced to a blood-filled pool of nothingness. no reflection of the man lied within, it was beyond salvageable. reeling her head back after mere moments, scylla's assessment is clear. "your vision cannot be saved. i can offer you celandine to treat it, however..." she pauses, considering her verbiage carefully. perhaps a touch too eagerly, a more than slight willingness to do so etched into the tone of her words does the girl suggest, "it should be removed. i can do it for you... if you wish." in all fairness, it was factually true. the gash crudely sliced the iris in half, rendering the eye itself essentially useless to the man beyond aesthetic purposes.

however, did it truly need to be removed to ensure the continuation of his life? perhaps not. did she consider the experience of the removal to be a valuable learning experience regardless of the cost it bore? absolutely. scylla knew that her ethics were flawed, but either way, the stranger would be better off with her help than without -- justifying the cause regardless of the motives.

He winced as he sits before her, attempting to keep his eye open is a great feat and everything in him screams to close it. His lip curls and wrinkles from the pain and his brow furrows. When Santi sees her own eyes widen at the sight of his ruined eye he knows it’s bad, even though he obviously knew that before. So he listens to her offer some type of treatment, a plant he assumes, but continues with a however — which is never good. 

It seems those words hold true in this instance as well. She says it should be removed and his scowl becomes even deeper. A low growl emits from his throat. Not necessarily meant for her but just the situation in general. 

“Mm.” He grunts in acknowledgment. “And how the fuck do you plan on doing that, chica?” He asks sarcastically. Though he really does wonder how she would go about it because Santi knows that would hurt worse than hells fire.