in the heat of the moment, neo didn’t quite care how they got away from the impending doom the bird brought onto them. she knew they needed to go before the nevermore decided to attack again, so there was little qualms about exiting through the terrifying, rippling red tear that appeared out of nowhere. she had many questions as to how the other managed to create portals, but that was the least of their worries now.
clutching onto the raven as if her life depended on it ( it kind of did ), she followed her through the portal. the darkness was suffocating, as if this void was sucking all of the air from her lungs. when she saw light, she felt she could finally breathe and she let out a sigh, heart pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears.
it was a quaint and quiet house, one that she felt should have been fit right into a nursery rhyme or a children’s story. forever fall was a beautiful place and the little cottage added to the aesthetic of a storybook picture.
the trip to the bed left her hissing and wincing in pain as a THROBBING sensation moved through her body. she leaned back against the wall, a hand pressed to the wound as her face contorted in a clear sign of pain. she felt so weak at this point. there was little she could do to defend herself now as blocking that attack. her parasol, now in even worse condition than it had been before, was dropped to the ground. useless.
On the far end of the safehouse, at last she removed her mask, setting it gently on the dining table with a soft clatter. It's a smaller gesture — she's sure the other isn't particularly FRIGHTENED by the monster's visage — but it leaves her a little more open, a little more vulnerable, if only to LEVEL THE PLAYING FIELD a bit.
Somewhere in the cupboards, there was medical supplies — a hell of a lot more than a little first aid kit, anything and everything Raven might and had needed coming back from whatever less than savory business she'd be on — and, if Qrow had forgotten about the safehouse altogether, ALCOHOL. Both of which she'd need if either of them were going to survive the night.
She spent too long rummaging through cabinets, everything a disorganized MESS, but slowly but surely she got there — two bottles of whiskey tucked under one arm, a box of bandages in her other hand, rubbing alcohol and gloves and stitching implements tossed in haphazardly, and all of it dumped unceremoniously on the side table next to the bed the other was on.
Wordlessly, she grabbed a stool, dragged it to the bedside, and set to work. Gloves come to rest on the side table beside everything else as her gentle fingers, now bare, came to the bloodied fabric of what remained of the other's shirt. “I'm going to have to pull away your shirt to get to the wound, just— stop me if you need to.” There wasn't much left of it — but she went slow, careful to keep the pain down to a MINIMUM the best she could.
When that was done, she went straight to cracking open a bottle and taking a long swig — to keep her hands steady, she justified. After a night like this, she had a lot of reasons.
“How old are you, anyways?” She didn't even wait for a reply — at this point she knew not to expect one, not verbal — before offering the bottle to the other. At this point, underage drinking was probably the least of the other's crimes.
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