Blackfoot Forest Foolish Protector act 2

Oh, Dakarai was so silly! Even on his deathbed the man tried to control of the situation and take care of these things for her. Hadn’t that been they entire relationship, up to a certain point — Olive needing something done, and Dakarai being all-too-willing to do it for her? In this case, he simply could not, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, the man lay amongst the snows, bleeding, torn, dying. The sights and the smells of it was almost enough to turn Olive’s stomach in revulsion, but her sorrow and desperation kept her grounded in the needs of right then. The fae leant her visage close to his, flicking her tongue to lick his nose and cringing when she tasted blood there, too. It was everywhere.  

Olive grimaced and pulled back, her voice coming steady and bouyant; maybe it was something that Dakarai could cling to, and be soothed. “Why don’t I worry about this, and you worry about nothing, dear? You will be fine…” but no more uncertain words had ever been spoken. The unthinkable was coming true — Dakarai might actually die. 

Then, she would truly be alone in this world.

If her heart hadn’t already been thrumming inside her chest, that thought certainly would have done it. The knight made a joke about his appearance and, though Dakarai could not see it through his wounds and the grime, Olive’s grimace turned down into a outright frown. The man was inherently very attractive — it was something about him that appeal to her vanity — but he was physically broken. A gaping wound lay where his lovely ear once did, and lacerations down his face gave him a macabre glasgow smile. Olive had no idea how the lupine body could recover from such trauma, if it did, the man certainly would not be as handsome as he once was. 

“You will look very fearsome, my love.”

Slowly, Olive edged her forelimbs out from under his head. He was right, despite his ravings: the bleeding had to be stopped. Once his bloodflow was stemmed, she could turn her attention to cleaning the wound — infection could be the deadliest killer of them all. Then, and only then, could she deal with his pain. Pulling inspiration from the memories of treating Dakarai’s head wound alongside Carina,  Olive approach a low-lying tree and peeled some of the frozen mosses from its many branches. “Breath, darling, this may hurt…” the druid cooed before laying the frozen lichen upon his lesions. Then, she applied pressure.