she gives a tug of the knife in her shoulder blade, an injury of her job. comes with the territory. she shouldn’t expect anything less. it renders her BREATHLESS as she sits on the floor. she cradles her left arm as if it would take the pressure off the bleeding but healing wound. a damn near feral noise leaves her as she turns to get her back off the wall. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts. and yet, it’s nothing in comparison to the slight sting of phantom pains from when her back hit the bottom of the cave. talk about a backache then. focus, valentine. or is she beau right now? it doesn’t matter, valentine or beau. she’s the same. beau was for friends. valentine was for strangers. considering ( and hoping ) he’s going to help her, then maybe beau would be appropriate. she’ll let him pick his choice when she isn’t on the brink of curling into a ball. she’s cold. she needs heat. but she can’t be bothered to produce it herself, lest she takes away from her body’s focus on healing itself. her lips curl to nearly force the word please out, but with a wince, she turns back to the wall. another groan of agony leaves her. what had been on that damn hellhound’s teeth ? it isn’t until she presses her cheek to the floor that she can think enough, suppress the pain enough to get words out. ❝ why did you bring me here ? ❞ more importantly, why was he helping her? her whole body ripples as she forces feline features to retreat. even the tail she prayed he didn’t see. ❝ why are you helping me? ❞ her canines go back into their depressions in her gums, and for a second, if she smiled, it would have been human.
closed starters. @oathstaken
