A wind’s whisper was always akin to a scream on jungle planets. A crackling few embers on wood sat in front of him, hardly enough to be called a fire but the flames had to be kept low lest the wind carried sparks and obliterated the forest and its only two humanoid inhabitants. They’d come dangerously close upon crashing into thick red trees, narrowly missing the tree line, even narrower a river wider than the mouth of a sarlaac and likely twice the depth. The transport, large as it was, would have been toast.
Perhaps a tale to the Maker’s idealist intentions, the only two who had made it from the fire had been Dyans and Kylo Ren him-fucking-self. Dyans knew - and knew it well - that there was no surprise that he’d climbed his way from the rubble, while Dyans had barely managed to pull his hammer from the rubble much less himself. However, he found it quite ironic that he hadn’t been the one injured.
He’d removed his own sleeve, his right arm now a refuge for hell only knows the kind of insects. He’d slapped a few from the sky, attracted to the blood, rusty and metallic in scent. A pack of Dyans’ had miraculously been dutiful in surviving the crash, a small, worn roll of gauze neatly wrapped up tight, pre-wrap somewhere deep in its void; he made haste to look as the wound soaked through the cloth he was applying pressure with.
“Out of all of your odd abilities, you couldn’t have used one of them to prevent this?” He asked, not-so-stoically bitter. “And how is it that I - a mere assassin - made it out unscathed while one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy is on death’s door?” His eyes narrowed as he dangerously cut them to the man he was mending.
He twisted his lips indignantly, clicking his tongue as he expertly unwinded the gauze and tore a piece off with his teeth. He had no suture, no thread, and while he could dethread a pant leg, he wasn’t feeling up to carving a suture from animal bone, nor was he particularly fond of walking around a fertile planet scarce of a pant. He settled for a glance of annoyance while he rested the gauze upon the wound, undoing the pre-wrap to wrap the man’s waist. He was slow in his movements, like he’d rather be doing anything else.
“Poetic if you dream it up, loathsome in practice.”
gummygunk
2087
snowghoul
tangentwithtanner
dededos
