Flycatcher Downs Ring ring, the bartender please?

So this is what it was like to be fully alone, hm. No living, breathing soul within distance; not even a tree to keep one company in the great beyond. It was quite sad really, come to think of it.

With a dismissive snort, the tawny figure strode across the moorland, her eyes dulled and her bottlebrush tail dragging aimlessly along in the dirt. "Shit." The curse was sharp, but not unusual, as her paws slid out from beneath her battered frame and she came tumbling to a halt, her breath a raspy mess as she lay panting on the ground. This time she didn't even bother to try and right herself. Usually it would take only a couple of minutes to find the strength and the willpower to manoeuvre her limbs, but now? Fuck it. Half starved and miserable, the wench let her muzzle fall to the dust with a dull hmph, her body quite keen on giving up there and then.

hope you don't mind little old me

It seemed that it was his lot in life these days to find damsels in distress. Well, damsels and Xan, who happened to be a pretty enough sight to look upon as well. The downs were a sparse, dry land. There was no water here, nor much in the way of food. It was here that he found the woman, collapsed. He did not see her go down, but he saw her crumpled form in the distance and went to investigate. Sriracha drew near, as he had with the last injured wolf he came upon, and spoke gently. Señorita? Hello? Please, let me be two for two. Please, please tell me you're not dead. If she bore any resemblance to any wolf he knew, he did not see it. He was more concerned with her distressed state than her physical appearance. And besides, he wasn't always the most attentive wolf.

Oh hai Kae!

Her thoughts were escalating, damned and devilled as she lay amongst the grasses. It was easier than it should've been to lose herself inside her mind but, after all, they do say depression is s slippery slope. "Coarse I'm not fucking dead." Thick and raspy, her voice came out in a hoarse whisper in reply. Too far gone to register that the strange language belonged to the appearance of another being. And frankly, she didn't care. "Mr Racoon, is that you? No, of course not. With the redwoods and the grey stripes you're happily inside my stomach goddamnit." But what did she care. With eyes squeezed tightly shut, anyone would think she might be delirious, waffling garbage to voice her insanity. And they'd be goddamn right.

The woman's voice sounded like a death rattle, Sriracha feared that she was not long for this earth. Still, he saw it as his duty to do what he could, and so he spoke with her to find what her needs were. I see that now, he said cheerfully. But you must know, you are not well. Indeed she didn't sound well at all. When she spoke, it was nonsense. Well, not complete nonsense. He knew he bore a resemblance to a raccoon, if you were either very creative or very blind. In her delirium, perhaps she was correct. I am going to move you, he told her, not wishing to do anything without her consent. Or, at least he'd feel better if he'd at least asked first. Though not an accomplished healer, he was going to try to save her.

"My souls are sick. My souls are sick. What am I saying? My souls are sick." Her ears pricked to catch the voice of the mumbles; practically the only part of her body that would move without need of encouragement. When the voices continued, only then did she realise it was her own maw that was parted and speaking this nonsense. A small part of her strained to grip her humanity, to snap her jaws shut and banish all insanity from her tongue. Yet half and half refused to make a whole and the muttering continued, intertwining amongst the jubilant attempts of the being as her body shivered beneath his gaze.

"My souls, Racoon, though my stomach has consumed you fuck. Ah, my legs are broke." Not literally. Her words spewed not in protest nor agreement. Just mere delusion.

some pp up in here, let me know if you'd like me to change anything <3

The woman babbled on. Sriracha had tried his best to obtain actual consent, but she was clearly a little bit crazy, or at least delusional in her weakness. Her legs didn't look broken, and perhaps she could even walk. Rather than do battle with the madwoman, he closed his teeth around her scruff and began to drag her. It would be a long distance to the nearest source of water, either into the woods or to the greener pastures beyond. And then he would have to get her to Ocra, because he could feed her and water her, but he couldn't treat anything beyond that.

After a mere few feet Sriracha gave up on dragging her. Instead he worked her forelegs over his shoulders. In this way he dragged her, which was more of an affront to her dignity, but far easier.

She did little to help the man as he clamped his jaws round her scruff; letting herself stay limp as her body grazed the grass. Her mumbling ceased as she was slung over his back, quite surprised by his sudden movements. Though for a creature of potential poise and elegance, what did he expect. "Racoon or a um wolf. Maybe a pigeon, a fox? No no, not a fox. A turtle, fish?" Fuzzed and blurred, she did the best she could in her current state to address the stranger, but it seemed her tongue did not agree. At the moment it felt like a flabby piece of flesh. Like herself. Maybe she was a flabby piece of flesh, useless and full of absolute shit.

Whatever the heck she was, she knew only a few things. She was tired, sore. Bend and miserable. And this.. thing carrying her? Well she didn't care if it was making things better or worse.

It took a few hours of agonisingly slow movement before the duo reached damper ground. Still at the lowest of the low, the wench could only wait with eyes glued shut to see what magic this creature could perform. And whether it would be enough to save her skin. If she wanted to be saved, that is. Pretty big statement to have an answer other than 'no' for the time being.

For a wolf in her situation, she was still pretty heavy. He ignored her babbling, mostly because he had to hold on to one of her legs to keep her from slipping off entirely. Though his grasp was as gentle as it could be, he was keenly aware of his teeth's potential to break skin. Still, a few tooth marks would be favorable over dying.

Finally the lands grew green. Huffing and puffing he dragged her along, stopping every so often to heft her back up onto his shoulders when she slipped. He still needed to get her to water and food. It seemed like an eternity until he found a thin, shallow stream, little more than water flowing over rocks and through the grass. There was little danger of her drowning here, and so he felt it was safe to put her down. Look, I don't know if you can understand me, but I'm going to leave you here for a second, he told her. Then he dipped his paw in the water and splashed some at her face. This is water. Drink, cotillita. I will get you food. And after waiting for her response, he darted off to seek out some small prey.

A flash pain in her foreleg jerked woman a little way out of her devilled slumber and she let a gutteral moan similar to that of a bear as her body was jerked upwards back onto the ridge of his spine. She felt more than just a flabby piece of flesh this time, more like a rag or a deceased corpse than alive.

Nevertheless, with her eyes now blurrilly opened, she was dimly aware of the terrain in front of the two, her moaning now a yearning huff as her instincts began to override her deflated self. She was set down beside the stream in an unceremonious way, grunting as her rump made contact with muddied ground. "Cotillita," she repeated dumbly, the rest of his words blissfully sliding over her receptors as her thirst for water drove her legs into a violent churning until her muzzle was fully planted in the shallow currents. 

"Food. Food." It was a word that sent shivers of urgency through her beaten form and, after she had messily downed her fill in liquid, she hauled herself into a sphynx-like posture as she watched his striped rear disappear into the wilderness. She'd sit here until he returned. Watching, waiting, for him to return with his promised necessity.

He took it as a good sign when she started to show some signs of lucidness. Though her sentences were briefer, they directly reference what he had just said. Sriracha encouraged this. Si. Cotillita, he repeated. Unless you have a name, I'm going to call you that. It felt wrong to bestow upon her a name when she must have already had one, but what else was he to call her?

She surged into the stream, and Sriracha only prayed that she wouldn't manage to drown herself in the time that he was gone. Don't drink too fast, you'll puke, he cautioned, though he was sure the warning fell on deaf ears. She drank and drank, until at last his words triggered her interest in food. And then he was off.

Nearly forty-five minutes later, Sriracha returned. He carried a squirrel, who flopped limply between his jaws. He stopped a few feet away from her, and ripped a strip of fur-covered meat from the squirrel. This he set before he, while he withheld the rest of the meat from her. I don't want you to eat this fast. There is plenty of water. Food is a little harder to catch, Sriracha said. He would give her more incrementally.

It was a long while of impatient shuffling and the occasional expectant mumble before the man returned with something clearly swinging from his jaws. To a woman who'd spent the past few weeks living off stinking corpses and the occasional harvest of berries, fresh meat was a delusion she'd never thought of seeing again so it came to no surprise that her mouth was a salivating machine as soon as the scent hit her.

In a flash she was onto the strip; a gobbling monster as it was thrust down her gullet in few ravenous chomps. Yet such drastic movement for Elora didn't come without its pitfalls and the wench was left staggering, hunched over as the liquid inside her frame and stomach sloshed threateningly. Unfortunately, It seemed the meat had only stirred the nauseating moment into a sickly crescendo. 

"More," she gasped between breaths, her bandy legs a shaking mess as her green gaze turned on Sriracha in an almost feral manner. "Cotillita. Hungry. But oh so disgusting."

Cotillita, as she was now called, offered no name. She was slavering when he arrived, a wretched, hungry creature. Sriracha watched her eat and found pity in his heart. She was a broken thing, but with food, safety, and patience, she could be mended. Of this he was sure.

The meat was gone as soon as Sriracha dropped it before her, so fast that he feared she would choke. She didn't, but he was still afraid she would puke it up anyway. (He was more afraid that she'd puke it up and then eat it in front of him, which would be gross.) Too late, he thought that maybe letting her drink her fill was a poor decision. Would she puke that up? 

The second the food was gone, Cotillita demanded more, and also said that she felt disgusting. At least, that's what he understood. I think you're eating too fast, he said. Did you even chew? It made him feel bad to hold back the rest of the food, though. He wouldn't deny her that, after she had probably been starving for weeks. So this time, he took a smaller strip and chewed it thoroughly before spitting it out on the grass in front of her. Go slow, señorita, you've got time. Nobody's gonna take it from you, I won't let them, he promised.

Her plea was not not answered immediately by the striped creature. Shivering and heaving in a rather irregular way, the wench slid herself to the leaf litter below, her maw agape as she breathed in struggling gasps. As much as her body yearned for more nourishment, her stomach refused to even think of eating, gurgling quite grossly as it was pressed against the dirt in a lame attempt to quench the nauseating moment.

Raccoon's words slipped over her drooping ears as her head lolled to one side, her flank rising heavily as her throat fought wildly to keep what liquid resided in her belly to stay where it belonged. "Raccoon," she gurgled, fighting for self control against its lethal counterpart; greed. Yet as much as she tried to resist the urges, her hunger was a formidable opponent; consuming whatever willpower she had left as her tongue slithered away to grasp a portion of the moistened chunks that Sriracha had quite kindly presented for the picking.

No sooner had slid so menacingly down her throat, the sickness returned in waves more painful to imagine. "My insides are tussling, battling each other with teeth and claws," she moaned, scrapping dignity as she promptly sat up and retched until she could retch no more.

With the contentsof her stomach strewn amongst the grass, she was left feeling utterly up-ended, wrung out like a piece of sodden hide. Disgusting. With a shaky huff, she lost herself in the kind sir's gentle tones, flatly ignoring the remainder of her meal as she flopped rather ungracedully back onto her side. Exhausted and utterly beaten up, her instinctual urges took a turn to rest as she lay, her once insane babble replaced with the occasional softly spoken grunt.

Oh, she was definitely going to puke. He watched her heaving sides with trepidation, and when she began to gurgle and moan. It didn't seem wise for her to eat what he had offered, but before he could take it back, she had scooped up the pre-chewed food and swallowed.

And then promptly puked.

Gross, he said, wrinkling his nose at the smell and sight of it. Still, it was good food, and so he snatched away the full strip of food and quickly set it out of her way. The rest he left. He noted a good deal of water in her vomit, and he blamed that for her upchucking. Okay, try again, but slower, he said gently. She needed to regain her strength if she was to make the trip back to the grove. Once there he could hand her off to Ocra, but until then she was his problem. Slow, Sriracha urged. There's plenty.

It seemed as though his soothing tones broke through the brick wall the wench had built and, for the first time in weeks, she felt the faintest glimmer of encouragement slip through her veins. She was still laying rather pathetically on her side when Sriracha removed the fresh meat and her nose twitched in mild interest, tongue protruding slightly from between her coated lips.

"Cotillita," she breathed, the effort sending shivers of uncomfortable exhaustion throughout her hide. Yet, though she refused to admit it, she was slowly recovering from the heaving; her stomach returning to its usual ravenous self and her throat to dry yet for the most part, painless.

Yearning took a hold of her motions once again her framework slowly shifted round to face the striped sir, nosing hungrily through the watery puddle of nutrients that lay at her paws. She took a tentative bite, relief making her shoulders sag as it settled within her gullet before lapping the rest up. It took a little while of careful consumption and a few satisfactory murmurs before all that was left was a patch of foul smelling grass; the agouti woman no longer felt all that weak with hunger. Through green eyes still fuzzed and blurred as usual, "Raccon, fish, thanks a bunch," were the only words she uttered.

A thin whine of sympathy eked from between his lips as he looked at her, a poor wretch, broken and exhausted. And she had every right to be; her vomiting had been particularly violent. Still, if he was going to get her to the safety of the grove, she needed to have strength aplenty. 

He watched her eat again on tenterhooks. Sriracha stood near, silent and supportive, but not so close that he couldn't get out of the line of fire if she started to puke again. She went slower this time, and Sriracha gave her the occasional, crooning positive reinforcement. Cotillita was unwell in mind and body, she needed all of the positivity he could offer. And boy, did he have positivity to spare.

When she was done, the wretch thanked him, drawing a wide smile from Sriracha. Good, he said. Come with me? Though she had gotten food down, he feared that she would not survive alone. The land where he had found her was relatively flat, but the verdant downs consisted of rolling hills over which he could not carry her so easily.

With a pained and distant smile, the agouti wench staggered to all fours, emitting a soft groan as pressure was once again put upon her limbs. It felt strange, unfamiliar, after being confined to the ground for so long yet her old drive was slowly beginning to reform, holding her figure rigid until she was standing almost confidently beside Sriracha. "Tired," she'd mumble through gritted teeth, seeking encouragement from the striped sir's positive posture. "But I'll follow."

Short posts be short =3

I think it's safe to wrap here <3 Good thread!

Cotillita rose, and Sriracha watched near-paternal pride. A smile, genuine and fond, touched his face. Good. You can rest easy soon, he said. And then he began to walk, slowly, sure that she would follow. And so he would lead her, if she followed, back to the safety of the grove and its inhabitants, all the while murmuring encouragements.