his knee buckling is the only tell-tale sign of the adrenaline high finally crashing down before his left leg fully gives up on him. there's a gash somewhere on his thigh, blood pouring out and over the fabric of his pants. his ankle might also be fucked. and it's all the work of his fellow hunters. "fuck," andrés says out loud, forgetting for a moment that his target is still across the clearing. that's the first rule he learned before taking up the mantle full-time, that the target is never more important than the ways of the hunter. how could he have been so fucking stupid? he'd gotten the rival hunters to flee, but he's defenseless now. all it takes is one spell from her before he's buried six feet under in these woods. no one would find him until it's too late. she hasn't attacked yet. and he had saved her life. surely that'd mean something. looking up at her from where his leg lays splayed out on the ground, andrés calls out, "don't suppose you have a spell that could heal me up before we continue this?"
starter for . . . @bornmonstrous / from andrés herrera.