@jediaceanik· / brother
Their group is akin to dogs lead by a wolf. A pack of sorts, and the only family Kina has left. They had been separated, fanning out to clear out troopers and none alike, and while separated, Kina let his other senses fan out. Letting his connection to the force show and tell him the locations of people before he can even see them. He feels his brothers in that force too, all of them connected like a spider’s web across the battlefield.
There was a twinge. fly stuck to the web but only on the very edge. something feels wrong. and he realises one of their pack is missing.
He moves away from his area, following his instinct.
As he ducks through war torn buildings he hears it; An echo of a pained call.
he switches to the force, seeing where his eyes cant. making sure its not some trap. He senses no troopers but he does sense…
“Neirin.”
He straps his scythe to his back, breaking into a run across muddy terrain. He can feel the pull growing stronger, feel the Force leading him through the world towards his fallen pack mate.
The sight of Neirin almost on his knees is enough to knock the air from his lungs. He is glad in this moment that it’s him who finds him.
“You fool.”
His voice is almost affectionate, although distorted by the mask. He glances around, seeing no place dry for them and decides to make his own dry spot. Using the force, he pushes the mud and grime away from them, letting it build up against stones and walls and leave a perfect circle of stone below them against the side of the building. He motions for Neirin to sit, although he suspects it won’t take much effort as he removes his helmet and glove.
He places a hand over the wound, and he can’t hide his shock when it comes away crimson.
“How?”
the wounds sting as he sits. his fellow knight appears as nothing more than a fever dream to blurred vision, a headache forming and throbbing against his skull; he headbutted one of them, he recalls, perhaps a bit too hard. he bites back a laugh at the thought, then kills it with a snicker - no attack can be too hard, no wound can be too deep, no death can be too unpleasant. the taste of copper rides across his senses, drenching his tastebuds as he rolls his lower jaw in a slow semi-circle. a fang is loose. he recalls being socked in the jaw by someone who should have never gotten so close, although the memory is immediately followed by the phantom pain in his throat. howls have rarely hurt his throat since his days as a fledgling attempting to master his own power, yet it feels as though his jugular has been rubbed raw. dry ground is uncomfortable for him. unnatural. that’s his main qualm with the force, he supposes; it feels unnatural to sit where it has been used, as if he holds any hypocritic respect for the rightful order of things. that fatal order was what landed him in a slave camp. that order was what killed his mother. the order of things - cosmic and eternal, unyielding - is what has driven him to this point, deathly loyal for a group of murderers who he is more likely to die for than to die by. he takes a deep breath. his hand falters from his side to rest over the wound on his abdomen, warmth from his own blood drenching through his glove. he’s considered trying to fix it by tearing fabric and pending it around, but… no, that won’t work. he doesn’t have the medical knowledge, nor does he have the fabric to spare: he may not be a medic, but he understands that putting charred and skinned flesh from his pelt over a wound is asking for an infection. he’d rather bleed out than suffer on a bed for ages on end. still, though. he looks to the other knight. with an almost smug grin, he removes his helmet, setting it beside him with his free hand. it isn’t wise for him to show his face, to display fangs and claws that the world would sooner see torn from his figure than willfully embraced… alas, this is a fellow knight. a brother. and he, in his infinite wisdom, knows that if anyone is to be trusted? it’s him. ❛ i got a bunch of ‘em. ❜ it isn’t a direct answer to the other knight’s question, but it should serve some purpose of relieving his pride. ❛ it got a little… out of hand. yeah. out of hand. ❜ he huffs the echo, showing a visible wince as the hand embracing his wound strikes a particular nerve. a low growl filters out.
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