Luneshale Pass your body laid out on these filthy floors

they had slaughtered him.

men, old and young, drawn together by their status—highborn, accustomed to making such decisions. met and exclaimed over firenze di rossi's atrocities, mourning the sons that never would come into their own. 

(forget the wife; she had made her own poor decision.)

so what if they hadn't been legitimate? they could have easily served as foot soldiers or eunuchs to some other family. the rossi prince would have never needed to look them in the eye again. all could have been mended, resolved.

the order came down: death by a thousand snaps of jaw. they slaughtered him, as he had slaughtered those dearest to him.

the news came to fiamma through a woman who had known her family well. together, they laughed and feasted for days, toasting what semblance of justice had been handed down by the council. 

it did not bring her mother or brothers back—nothing could, naturally—but knowing her 'father' had suffered the same fate he'd inflicted was comfort and satisfaction enough. 

now. . .to find the bastard who'd caused this all in the first place.

---

it was a curious place, this desert pass; she hadn't been here long, but long enough to know that. the moon was still fairly full enough to light her path through the night, but further aid came in the form of crystals littered everywhere, winking, glittering like the innumerable stars in the sky. 

lunar glow and mineral shimmer alike; her pelt was ablaze in silver hues, eyes glacier-cool in the tapered face.

a bat or two had come swooping down, seeking nectar from the cactus flowers. she couldn't help but imagine them as her name-giver's presence from beyond the grave—meant to be menacing, but ultimately pesky and without consequence.

he could not—could never—hurt her now.

but the thought of firenze taking chiropteran form brought a giddy grin to her wide mouth and a laugh that burst free, echoing off the rocks. fiamma made no pretense at stealth, though various scents at the mouth of the canyon (some stronger than others) had given her slight pause.

still, wolves eager enough to claim and hold a territory like this would have sentries out at night. that was the way of things. having met no one of the sort, she forged ahead, licking dry chops and wondering where the nearest source of water was.

surely the desert gods would smile on her eventually.

i have no idea what's going down with the cartel after that fight thread; i'm game to have her get fucked up/captured/whatever!

keeping super vague

they retreat and lick their wounds. sangre looks like she went through a log splitter. and soto is no medic; his passing understanding of botany allows him enough knowledge to stymie infection, but not heal.

they need a medic.

he pauses as a pair of bats swoop low, their chittering sonar pinging around him. they land upon a cactus that soto strides past, his own search carrying him across the moonwashed plains for moss.

a silhouette pulls his attention. soto approaches warily, golden gaze flickering over the wash of cinder that comprised her pelt. he says nothing, chin jutted out as he surveys her openly and without shame.

finally, footfalls. the smile remained upon fiamma's face as she turned to face the incoming stranger. the luminescence set off little sparks of gold across his dark pelt, and his yellow eyes practically glowed in their place set deep in his skull.

approaching headlights. apprehension imminent.

but he said nothing, and made no move toward her, only looking her over with a familiarity that would have made a weaker woman tremble. as it was, she remained ramrod-straight and steely-eyed, her gimlet gaze at odds with mirthful curve of her muzzle.

it was only after a couple moments that she noticed the litany of fresh wounds cutting through his fur, and the stench of blood and battle hanging around him like a summer storm cloud.

goodness, the rossi remarked, raising her brows. what happened to you?

the nightstalker had clearly seen better days, and she wondered why that was. she could find more than a couple wolves in the collection of scents on his figure; this had been no small skirmish. a battle, then? color her absolutely intrigued.

a bat swooped down with a shriek that split the air between them, wings beating at a frenetic clip—but her attention did not dare wander from the man before her.

he’s steel resolve but she’s iron 
incarnate; she surveys him back with the smallest hint of mirth. 

the bat nearly undos him. not because he’s afraid of dark-winged pests, but because he’s in overdrive. he’s on high alert. he’d just nearly fucking died. 

rather than look horrified, she looks intrigued. her lack of disgust over his injuries sparks a small hope in him.  

but he doesn’t understand her. and it’s unlikely she would understand him. 

he’s not one to put blind faith in strangers, but if this is kismet he’ll take it. ayudame, supplicant motions follow, gestural echoes to his request. ayuda sangre.

he spoke in a tongue foreign to her—yet, at the same time, oddly familiar. perhaps not foreign at all, just. . .strangely accented:

aiutami. aiuta sangre—

sangue? fiamma asked by means of clarification, cocking her head. there was plenty of it on the man. he needed help. were there others?

he continued to motion her forward, and it was morbid curiosity rather than a sense of duty or pity that guided her steps. the erstwhile princess fell in line beside him, and it was at a hurried pace that they headed toward whatever destination the stranger had in mind.

cos'è successo? fiamma queried between steady breaths, eyes cutting over toward his. dove stiamo andando?

she was ready to switch to the more common tongue in an instant should it be necessary, but the man had addressed her in (what she assumed was) the words she knew well, even if the cadence was wrong. in times of crisis, it was best to keep it simple.

what she speaks isn’t common, but it’s not his tongue either. soto gapes as if his thoughts have scattered; it’s close, but not close enough for conversation. 

the look of concern worn on her face encourages him. 

desperate, and slightly delirious from his own blood loss, soto abandons scruples and points to his cuts — most lacerations by now. 

then, even though he barely knows what she’s asking, he brings her to sangre. 

sangre, in fucking pieces on the floor. 

he points to the piecemeal scrapings of desert grass he’s assembled by her stony cot. 

then he looks at this kind-hearted stranger and speaks: ayúdanos.

oh, god.

fiamma was shocked by the sight before her, which she believed to be a she-wolf—though the wretched creature was far from any semblance of glory. open, jagged wounds at so many critical points across the lithe, dark form. she was no healer, she does not know. . .

she looked at the man, regret coming in cold waves over her. she could barely feel her toes. it wasn't as if she was unaccustomed to carnage—witnessing the slaughter of one's entire family tended to harden you to those matters—but he was asking her to help.

and beyond trying to prevent the woman from bleeding herself into a dry husk on the sand, fiamma had no idea where to even begin to help.

non posso. . . she whispered, frozen in place.

but attempt, she must.

moss was used to stanch blood and plug wounds. that, at least, she knew. apparently, the desert grass was all that could suffice here, and so she knelt down and began to pluck and pack, pluck and pack, ignoring the sickening feeling of those wearied muscles twitching under her touch—

acqua, fiamma declared, glancing at the man, her muzzle, chest and forelegs smeared with blood. portami l'acqua. a precious resource, no doubt, but the woman was probably as dehydrated as she was delirious. they must have it.

water could rouse her from shock, perhaps. water could keep her going.