Fairspell Meadow Keep me running, running scared

@Buniq

Staggering steps pull the red male forward, as if each takes the entirety of strength he has left. Before him, a meadow of vast colors, many of which he cannot appreciate. His paws sore, bleeding from running continually. Breaks minimal, the more distance he puts between the shattered remains of his home, the better. Jaws parted with tongue out, he desperately heaves for air. Alas, vision spins, and he attempts to catch himself. Limps feeling weak—useless—underneath his weight. Eventually, they refuse to work any longer, and he collapses in a heap.

She's distracted, nose-deep in flowers when the sound of quick, heavy footsteps reaches her. Startled, she flinches a little as she glances up just in time to watch the dark stranger collapse. Oh, shit, She breathes to herself, paws carrying her toward the other without a second thought. The scent of blood is in the air, faint but enough to make her panic a little. You alright? She calls as she draws nearer, ears perked to catch any response that may come.

He is not alone.

Body tenses, mind and muscle screaming at each other in a war that might've been amusing if not for the potential danger. Perhaps they have caught up to him already, despite the many days and nights he's fled. Terror gripping him, for while he knows fighting like the back of his hand, there is not much one lone wolf could do.

The fur on that back of his scruff stands on end, and he struggles to his feet as steps near him. Lips pull back to display a half-hearted snarl, and bloodied jaws. Internal injury, maybe. He wheezes out a breath, preparing himself to fight this tiny woman if he must.

Surprisingly, she does not attack. Instead, she... worries?

His lips relax—a waste of precious energy—and the male stares with unfocused red eyes. 'Dandy. Never better.' Yes, he lies. Obviously not okay.

The male startles her again when he rises, bristling and snarling, and she stiffens. A grimace tugs at her lips when she sees the blood, and she hopes she doesn't have to kill the poor fool. Fortunately, he seems to settle after a moment — enough to lie very unconvincingly, at least. You don't look alright, She says, tone laced with the hint of a challenge. After a brief pause, she reluctantly adds: I could help. She doesn't really want to, but she'll probably insist anyway; she can't just watch another wolf suffer, or walk away from it as if it isn't happening.

Red eyes narrow to calculating slits, observing the brightly colored woman as if he could read her mind simply by body language alone. Last he needs is a sly assassin convincing him to decrease his guard. He’s been through too much to die now.

“Fine,” he says, tone condescending—doing a favor for her, not for him, surely. The red male descends, crossing his bleeding paw over a forearm and laying sphinx-like. Caution clear in the way he watches even the slightest movement. “I am in search of a golden flower that blooms in rings before the petals curl, and begin to resemble a hedgehog.”

“If you even know what a hedgehog is.” He adds after a beat of silence.

The male relents, to her relief, though his tone sends a flash of irritation through her. She relaxes somewhat as he settles again, completely still save the agitated flick of her tail-tip. Of course I know what a hedgehog is, She bites back before she can stop herself, green eyes fiery. It's a total lie, of course; she's only ever heard of hedgehogs, and she cannot imagine a flower looking like any sort of animal. The imagery is strange, to say the least. I'll find your stupid flower. Hopefully. Somehow. With that, she turns and marches off, intent on finding this dumb flower, though at this point she isn't sure whether it's to help the stranger, or simply to prove that she can.

Hm, he does not trust this individual will succeed.

With a roll of his eyes, he watches the orange clad woman wander in a fruitless search. Amongst a meadow of wildflowers, it is unlikely for those unfamiliar to find the one he is seeking. The red male turns his crossed paw skyward. He bows his head, licking and nibbling lightly at the dried blood crusted across it.

Minutes tick by with him debating whether he ought to slip away. Body weakness and a dizzy mind keep him where he is, however, and soon enough he spots the woman approaching him with not one flower, but a mess of them—covered nearly head to toe.

Lifting his head and placing his paw back gingerly, he narrows his gaze. The majority useless, yet by some luck she has the one he is searching for. “Hm, seems you are not incompetent.”

She's kind of mad, and perhaps a little rough with the flowers as she searches for the right one, trying to recall if she's ever heard anyone describe a hedgehog before. The effort is futile, and she returns with a haphazard bundle of various torn golden flowers. She drops them when he speaks, nose wrinkling a little when one of them sticks to her tongue. What's your problem? She snaps, spitting the last flower out with a small huff. You know I don't actually have to help you, right?

It is the closest the majority will ever get to a compliment from the male—for frost is his outer shell.

The woman spits the flowers before him, and his nose wrinkles in distaste. Sober will not harm their use, but that does not make him any less reluctant to coat his wounds.

“My ‘problem’?” Eyebrows lift. “Of course I know that. I am confused why you would bother. That is my ‘problem’.” He shuffles, nudging the flower he is after with his nose before taking it into his mouth and chewing. Once it is ready, he begins placing the mashed mix onto his bleeding paws.

“What are your intentions?” He says, lifting his eyes to squint at her.