Petals of Scarlet » ren ᵕ roo
He really shouldn't have chanced it. But the colors on that man were absolutely murderous. He hadn't been that frightened (the seizing, enveloping kind) in quite some time. Destruction bleeds from chaos bleeds from destruction. It's so tired, he thinks to himself, trying not to be phased by the lingering (cloying) smell of rot. He thinks of the boy, eyes shooting crimson as the blood seeping from his veins, eyelashes hardly strongholds against the injustice. The tears sting as they drip into the cut in his cheek. He is only vaguely aware of the small blossoms blooming about him, out of the red from his veins, sprites fussing about the open veins and the bruising. It's debilitating.
His eyes, cloudy now, flicker about in an attempt to figure out where exactly he ended up, though it's difficult when the planet spins this way and that. He has to close his eyes.
If it worked out alright, he was probably in the outskirts of some wooded area or another, and he'd stop bleeding soon. If not, it could mean some time before he'd heal. He lets the thought of perhaps console him before giving in to the fingers at his throat and losing consciousness.