Ｔhe beast that ran found no escape. it shuddered and jerked into the shadows & wailed as it was ravaged by the sinners within. the Ｈound was a hunter. a prolific, seasoned hunter. it was folly to run from a man who held your life in the palm of his hand as soon as he set foot on the realm that you called home.
tass had never enjoyed the pedantic nature of despising half-breeds. being one himself, he had endured the brunt of its bearers. mortal hounds, oft, were particularly guilty of this bias. being their lord, tass felt a certain duty to keep it as minimal as he could. infighting could topple nations. & perhaps, his heart ( rotted as it were ) lay heavy in his chest at the thought of others suffering the judgement he had suffered for all of these years.
the fingers that save the other from falling are cold. dead. soon they are joined by more, as tass sets the injured being down on the closest blunt object. it happens to be a small rock big enough for the two of them, so too he sits. draws a cigarette from his tin. places it in his mouth for him to light of its own accord.
❝ don’t mention it. ❞ comes the reply. that thick, northern drawl prominent as ever. ❝ how did y’piss off that one then? just your existence, or somethin’ more personal? colour me curious. ❞ the strange man would carry the scent of perdition. ash, coppery smoke, a strange and unplaceable musk. hands turn the stranger to get a better look at his wounds. ❝ you hangin’ on there mate? i can take y’to ‘ospital, if you prefer. might be a bit confused by your anatomy, though. ❞
there are hands on him. cold (his spine shudders on instinct) but steady and they lift him up off the ground before sitting him down on something hard and cold. a rock. nils can’t remember the last time he was so relieved to feel something solid underneath him. rather than the familiar comfort of the forest floor he preferred. tired eyes turn his attention to the one who saved him. who or what is he? to be able to do what he just did? he has to be something.
fingers curl against the rock and he attempts to sit up straighter. the coppery smell of his blood fills his nose when he settles in long enough to notice it. the bite on his shoulder went deep. the damn thing was trying to tear a chunk out of him. wasn’t it? upright! yes! sit up?? his body doesn’t want to cooperate, though.
pain follows quickly in the wake of adrenaline that’s been sloshing through his veins nonstop since the chase and fight began. nils swallows a noise he nearly let slip and subtly tries to reach back and press his hand to the mark attempting to see how bad it was without being able to glance at it.
“think it started out with my existence,” he grumbles under his breath and lowers his hand back down to the rock cringing at the sensation ripping through his shoulder in the aftermath. “then after it charged at me, i landed a few solid punches it didn’t expect me to be able to. the rest, you can say, is history until you showed up. thank you again,” blue eyes wandered back towards tass, “asshole was trying to tear his teeth right through me.. how’d you do that?”
“no hospitals.. no. i just.. no. it’ll be okay,” and then speechless unsurety.
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