The Wild

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk spent a moment or two reacquainting himself with reality. He was pleased that at first the strange Elven woman hadn’t noticed him; it gave him a few moments to wipe the tears from his eyes and re-establish himself as an adult in charge of his life’s circumstances, or at least one that appeared to be.

He dusted the snow from his meager belongings, stretching slowly against the old scars and ill-mended bones. Occasionally he’d glance at the fitful face of the injured Elf, worried that she may still be delirious from her injury, or touched with frostbite from the cold.

When she finally came fully awake and noticed him she rose, slowly and shakily to her feet. With a hand against a tree for support she made her accusations that Brakk had ruined her hunt, and gave him clear instruction that he’d better make up for it. She obviously was not happy.

For a brief moment Brakk wondered if she would fall over, unable to stand against the obviously painful wound on her thigh. It still didn’t look good, red and swollen and covered with dirt and dried blood. But her forceful demand that Brakk begin tracking the dragon she hunted made it clear, she would not sit around here waiting.

It took only a moment or two for Brakk to shoulder what little he owned. He pointed, “That’s the direction the thing was headed when I saw it last.” He started in that direction. Fervently he hoped he could find some sign of the beast’s trail. He knew he wasn’t much of a hunter, and had no real skill with tracking, but surely a beast that size would leave some trace.

It wasn’t far to where Brakk had seen the dragon-like creature. The broken underbrush still marked the spot fairly well, in spite of the rapidly melting snow from the night before. The Zhotunn rooted around the area for a bit, trying to get his bearings. It had been almost 36 hours since he’d had his encounter with the creature, and the melting snow had obliterated much of the most obvious signs.

Finally he felt sure he knew the direction the thing had been travelling and he pointed into the woods and said, “It looks like it was going that way.” The statement had the unmistakeable ring of a question, however, and he waited for the strange, naked Elf to confirm his guess.

[Deilakrion]

The woods were blanketed in quiet, the air still and mildly chilled. The same chill, coated in disbelief, was radiating from Deilakrion's eyes as she stared at Brakk. Fleshes were, invariably, hunters in some fashion. They followed her, tried to kill her, and in the end blood was shed and in some rare cases, bodies shed of life. But still, in all the time passed, Deilakrion had never met a flesh who had expressed an uncertainty in how to track a large smelly beast that left undeniable signs of passage. The snow made things difficult, yes, but not impossible.

The flesh carried weapons, rations; knew how to make a fire and camp in the woods. She looked at each of these signs in turn, utterly silent, trying out theories and testing them while being unsure as to quite how to proceed in this case. Yes, she could track, but killing the thing by herself would be a trial of the sorts that made her cranky just to think about with her body stiff and ready to break open and spill blood. Especially since it threw her for a loop, were she to be pierced again by those claws. Using a decoy would be the most optimal. But if the flesh could not track, was it really capable of hunting?

She pointed at Brakk's weaponry, impatient, and dragged all of her knowledge of fleshy concepts together. "Flesh steal?"

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk stalled, waiting for the strange Elven woman to confirm or deny his choice of direction. He noticed her studying him, her expression seemed ... confused? But then again, when was this strange woman not confused, or confusing.

Finally she gestured at Brakk and asked a cryptic question, “Flesh steal?”

Brakk was taken aback by the question, not sure if he understood. Much of the strange woman’s attempts at communication were hard to follow, but this one was even more so. Was she asking him if he would be willing to steal something? Or was she asking him how he gathered his meager equipment? Was she making some sort of derogatory comment?

But she did not indicate a course of action for him. With a mental shrug he turned towards the apparent trail and began trudging through the slippery wetness that was once snow and was already quickly becoming mush.

As they trudged along, Brakk felt inclined to talk. “You know, my people aren’t much into hunting. We’re raiders mostly. Maybe that’s what you meant about stealing. We tend to take what we need from wherever we find it.

“Oh, we’d kill game as we came across it, bears, deer, wild boars, stuff like that, but we never really stalked anything. Mostly we’d just gather up a raiding party and hit a nearby Zhotunn settlement or Human village.”

Suddenly, the broad Zhotunn’s toe hung under a root and he tripped, falling with a loud thud and splat into the wet and muddy detritus at the floor of the forest. Cursing, he placed his hands beneath himself to start pushing back up to his feet when he noticed something. “Hey, there’s some kind of droppings here, a nice-sized pile. I bet it’s from that dragon creature we’re hunting! We’re on the right track!”

Pleased with himself, Brakk got back to his feet, wiping at the mud and wet leaves that were stuck to his armor and trousers. He grinned at the strange woman, “I’m getting pretty good at this hunting thing. It looks like there’s a pretty good swath of broken underbrush that way. I’m thinking he passed his spoor then turned that way.” He pointed, and sure enough there was an evident trail of mashed and broken vines, obviously made by a large creature moving through the woods some time ago.

With renewed vigor he turned and began along the new trail.

[Deilakrion]

The flesh did not answer her, nor make any attempt to. Deilakrion's brows drew together as she considered this, trailing along behind him. Her prospects were, she decided, dismal. He began to talk as he walked, and she followed as lightly as she could, not really paying attention to him once he started putting together words that had nothing to do with her or his ability to act as a proper killer of beasts. He was talking to her as if she herself was a flesh, which was an odd concept, and one she dismissed out of hand. That was an issue she'd never had to deal with before, so it was put aside as highly improbable. More likely he was rambling to himself, since fleshes had an innate need for talking.

She tried not to look at him. Mistake, after mistake, after mistake, that culminated when he fell down. She didn't offer a hand, and it pleased her that he didn't wallow around expecting one.

She began to experience serious misgivings, and gave a grunt without looking at him in the face, instead scowling down and away.

She could take over, go past him and show him the shortcuts, but that was beyond the point. One, she didn't want to be the first one before the beastie, and two, with him in the lead there was a good chance he might step into the things awareness before he was ready, and that would be a mighty fine distraction. Unless he got killed too fast. She eyed his back, and decided he wouldn't die too easily. Big fleshes tended to have a sturdy disposition that made them a pain to fight for very long. She shouldn't have the need for concern.

They slogged along for a good half hour, stopping every now and again as Brakk needed to reconfirm their direction, and Deilakrion remained silent and aloof. They were loud in their passage, so that those small and wary creatures grew silent at their approach, sometimes the only noise being their flight from the two leggers. She tried to ignore exactly what that signified, and decided that at the last moment she would break away from Brakk to leave him to face the frontal assault while she slipped around behind to tackle the rear of the thing.

Only one problem with that; the walking had made her stiff. The whole of her leg, and her hip, were tight and sore and hot. It would not have been a problem had she been alone, for she would have taken frequent enough rest breaks to offset the wound and to keep it limber, perhaps veering off the trail long enough to find water to cool it, but with her baggage in tow that might take longer than it was worth.

"Flesh, stop." She told Brakk, without giving any clear reason why. She was being nice enough to give him the warning, instead of taking the more simple route of halting and letting him wander while she circled around and met up with him later.

She sat at the base of a tree, and quickly and deftly assessed the state of her wound. The flesh was swollen and red, which wasn't too far out of the realm of normal, but the cut itself had closed and turned a more sickly color. The work of the poison, doubtless, and she took her dagger and reopened it to release the pus that had accumulated. She growled. It would be hard to be useful while her leg was hampered so by the slash, but she would manage. She wiped it out with a few handfuls of mushy snow, and once she was done she stood.

"Close. See beast soon if beast rest. Fall behind if beast move. Be faster. Less noise." And with that short lecture, she made a shooing motion with her hands, as if the break had somehow been his fault. Her pride wouldn't let it be any other way.

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk heard her call, “Flesh, stop.” He’d already become accustomed to her referring to him as “Flesh” and so knew she had addressed him.

He turned to face her as she lowered herself by a tree and studied her injured leg. Brakk observed as well, trying not to be too obvious about it. The wound did not look good. The large Zhotunn was sure she would not be able to go on. But when she lanced the red and swollen cut without as much as a wince, and then squeezed the flesh to push out the poisonous pus, again without a wince, he knew – this was no ordinary woman.

After smearing the muddy mush that was the remains of the night’s snow into the wound she stood and addressed him. When she said, “Be faster, less noise.” Brakk stared at her.

“You want me to move faster AND with less noise?” And her shooing motion had clearly indicated she wanted him to remain in front. Brakk began to grow suspicious. But he returned to the trail, trying his best to move quickly and quietly through the forest’s underbrush.

After a few minutes brooding Brakk finally said, “Are you planning something?” He paused only for a moment, knowing already that she wasn’t likely to answer him. “Oh, I get it; I’m the catapult-fodder, huh? The shock troop that is supposed to have the beast trying to kill me while you make a stealth attack. I guess I can understand that, I have armor and a large weapon while you … well, you don’t look like much for a frontal assault.”

He stepped over a broken tree, undoubtedly brought down by the dragon’s passage, and continued, “All right, I understand. I’ll attack the thing as soon as I see it, but don’t be too long in getting around its flank. We already know the thing’s claws are poisonous, I’ll bet its bite is even more so.”

He trudged along a few more minutes and then clearly heard squealing and grunting and the crashing of trees into the underbrush. With only a quick glance back at the strange Elven woman he knew, they’d found it, and it was already distracted. He drew out his axe, an old and pitted bearded axe he’d used for many years, and charged into the scene.

The beast was confronted by an injured wild boar. Brakk could attest to the ferocity of such a beast. One dead boar lay on the ground nearby, it’s neck ripped open by the dragon’s deadly claws. The beast would flick its tail around wildly, crashing into trees and ripping up the underbrush but not being terribly effective. Then it would lunge and attack with both claws and snapping its jaws together. The jaws usually missed but made a terrifying sound. The claws would often miss as well as the boar jumped and dodged beneath the beast. But Brakk could see at least one slash on the boar’s side that was bleeding freely and he could already see the poison at work in the wound as it bubbled with foul slime.

The Zhotunn warrior stormed into the battle, swinging his blade, aiming for the dragon’s sinewy neck. But he didn’t hit where he’d aimed. Brakk had forgotten the creature’s wings. While they were tiny and could never support the creature in flight, they were effective for parrying blows. A wing pushed Brakk’s axe aside, though not without cost. The blade of the axe tore a long cut in the thin membrane of the wing, and a trail of blood began to flow. The beast jerked its head around and studied Brakk for several seconds.

But it was only a few seconds. The boar chose that moment to make its attack, and with the dragon distracted it managed to dig its tusks into the beast’s softer underbelly. The dragon roared, a sound that almost took the breath out of the Zhotunn warrior, and turned its attention back to the enraged boar. It slashed with its claws at the animal and scored another blow, sending the boar rolling a dozen feet and stopping at the base of a tree. Brakk swung his axe again.

This time the axe struck the dragon hard near the joint where the wing attached to the shoulder. But the effect wasn’t what Brakk had expected. The dragon’s hide was tough, covered with thick plates, and its bones were hard as stone. The axe managed to dig through but the dragon hardly noticed. It’s blood flowed again and it jerked its head around once more toward the Zhotunn. It’s teeth crashed together just inches in front of Brakk’s face and the Zhotunn nearly fainted.

[Deilakrion]

She had been unsure if he was doubting her ability to kill. If he jeered or scoffed at her, no matter; she didn't count most insults as insulting by her standards, since it was noise and air and nothing major. No, it was when there was serious question to her ability that she grew offended with the need to prove herself the better. She knew her abilities. Showing off had nothing to do with it. It was also irritating that he had figured her out with so little to go off of. She wasn't used to working with anyone, or anything. She used whatever tools were at hand without any sort of condescension towards them, or regret at using them. They were there for a reason, and she was a practical sort.

It was unnerving that he was working with her.

Then there was no more time for pointless musing. With her wound, Deilakrion could not simply jump lightly around to assist the Zhotunn and drive the dragon into a killing frenzy which would be to her advantage. No, she had to study the situation, and let the other take the brunt of everything until she found a fortuitous opening that would not see her dead. She slunk behind broken underbrush, watching her footing carefully as she carved herself a path out of the way of the dragon's senses. It was possible she'd be smelled out, but with all the blood from the boar and the warrior acting as a distraction she was the least of the dragons' worries.

For a bit of time. That would change. She unsheathed her dagger, and watched the dragon carefully. She noted how Brakk's blows were deflected, and felt a surge of adrenaline that kicked her senses. Its underbelly, she thought, its eyes, the flesh right beneath its vestigial wings. She would have to score one of those, and she couldn't move fast enough to hit the eyes without getting caught by the teeth. The area beneath the wings would be the easiest, but the most fatal would be the underbelly. She did not want to lose the element of surprise. She was not ready to die by the teeth and claws of such a ridiculous beast.

She waited until the dragon lunged at Brakk, giving her its haunches and whipping tail, and without another thought for safety she broke her cover and pushed herself hard, diving under the tail and between the legs without giving it enough time to react, plunging her dagger up somewhere a little north of the genitals, and dragging it hard and heavy through the skin so its bloody gore spattered her, and there was a loud roar of pain, and then suddenly she was trampled and somehow kept a hold of her dagger -- barely! -- and curled into a ball as she was kicked away. She felt pricks of pain over her ribcage and in the muscle of her back, and barked her pain in her own loud cough of noise.

For a moment, she wasn't aware of anything but her own pain.

[BrakkUrGrath]

Once the battle had been joined, Brakk forgot about the strange Elven woman he’d been travelling with. His attention was riveted, focused on the monstrous beast whose claws dripped poison and whose gnashing jaws crashed, flashing dagger-like teeth that could take off a man’s arm with little effort.

The boar stirred near the tree but couldn’t rise – it was mortally wounded – and the poison coursing through its veins would finish it off quickly. It hadn’t the strength to recover its footing. Brakk dismissed it like he did all fallen comrades on any battlefield he’d ever occupied. The dead moved on to the Otherworld with or without your attention. If their deeds were honourable and glorious they would be remembered in stories and songs, if not, they were better off forgotten. If Brakk survived this battle, the story would include the boar that gave its life fighting a dragon with a Zhotunn warrior.

Brakk now faced the dragon alone, or so he had come to think. This sharpened his senses a bit. He became ever more aware of the claws, the teeth, the lashing tail, the batting wings, and those eyes. The eyes that seemed to be rubies that flashed in the dappled light of the sun between the early spring leaves of the forest, and now focused on him alone.

Then he caught motion, the flash of steel. He remembered his companion, saw her leap from hiding and slide beneath the huge beast. He heard the dragon scream in pain.

And he saw the beast stamp and trample a small, fragile, naked woman until at last she was kicked aside, rolling into the underbrush at the edge of the small clearing the dragon had created. When she stopped rolling a sound emerged from her throat. It was a gurgling bark. She sprawled a moment, then curled back into a ball.

The dragon continued thrashing and Brakk could see blood and gore splattering all over the clearing. He wanted to attack but the monster’s wild thrashing made it too dangerous to get too close. Its clawed hands and feet flew in all directions, its tail whipped back and forth and up and down, it’s long neck with the head and its vicious jaws snapped around as it writhed.

It seemed like hours that the dragon danced in this fashion. It was likely less than a minute. But eventually the creature’s antics slowed. Brakk advanced, cautiously, and swung mightily in an upward slash with his axe. The blade caught the beast on the underside of its throat, just below the jawbone and sunk deeply.

The dragon thrashed weakly a few more seconds and then lay still. Brakk stood, gasping for breath, waiting for his adrenaline to wind down as well. Then he remembered the woman. Quickly he moved past the dying dragon and kneeled next to the naked Elf. He studied her and knew: she was badly wounded.

The purplish lumps on her abdomen and chest told him she had internal bleeding, the twisted arm told him it was probably broken, and she had several more of the cuts from the creature’s hind claws, probably poisoned as well.

In spite of his superstitious fears of madwomen he touched her face, turning her head. “Hey! Wake up, say something! Are you all right?”

[Deilakrion]

Lips skinned back from teeth, and spittle frothed up between Deilakrion's lips. It was not bloody; her lungs were safe and clear. This, however, was more than could be said for the rest of the woman, who had engaged in suicidal tactics to see the enemy that had shamed her dead. The hunt had drunk deep of those offered to its greedy mouth, and though she had escaped the brief skirmish alive she might not stay that way just yet. The Hunt was nothing to be trifled with. She knew that.

Deilakrion had all she could to corner the hurt and take it to a place in her mind where it did not stain the whole of her, and leak into every portion of her thoughts. They were whirling again, sickly, tracing unfathomable patterns behind her eyes and deeper into her skull so that its sinuous motions replaced up and down. Had the Hunt taken her?

She felt pressure where it didn't belong, and she opened her eyes. It was hard to focus, but she did understand what was happening, and she found herself unable to bear it. "No. . .touch. . ." She said, and her breath caught in her throat and she wheezed over it; half-hearted cough with no force pulling itself from her with all the strength of a muscle twitch. Her mind felt like it was moving, contracting and pushing outwards, and she knew with sudden clarity that none of the wounds by themselves were fatal. That was good. She was used to lying around half dead after a big fight. That was how the world worked, right?

Her eyes rolled back up in her head, and she groaned. "Good. . .kill. . ."

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk was stunned a moment as he gazed at the broken body of the strange Elven woman. When she weakly ordered him “No ... touch ...” his eyes widened. In spite of her pain and injury, she remained insistent that none should lay a hand on her.

He squatted on his haunches, dropping his bloody axe beside him. He stared at the woman, sure she would succumb to her injuries at any moment. He could see her awareness fading in and out and sympathized with the battle against Death himself that waged in her soul. He wasn’t sure what he should do.

But when she gathered whatever internal strength she had and groaned, “Good ... kill ...” he knew. This strange madwoman would survive. She was proud of herself, and Brakk thought, proud of him as well. He nodded solemnly and added, “Yes, an excellent battle, my friend. The tales of this fight will live on ... provided we both make it out of here to tell the tale.”

He racked his brain, trying to remember what little first aid he’d been taught. First, he should clean the wounds, then try to bind them with something. He spoke to the woman whose injuries looked so horrible, “I’m going to find some water and then build a fire. And maybe there is enough untainted meat on these boars to make a decent meal. I’ll be right back. Don’t die on me, you hear?”

Without waiting for an answer – he’d already learned not to expect one – he grabbed his bloody axe and stood, his own body screaming it’s discomfort from the exertion as the last of the adrenaline burned away, and turned, studying the lay of the land. Choosing a direction that seemed to slope downward he decided there must be a stream of some sort that way and set off through the woods, leaving the injured woman to lay where the dragon had kicked her like some kind of discarded scrap of spoiled meat.

He stumbled through the woods, his feet leaden and dragging among the underbrush, heading steadily downslope until he could hear the gurgling of a stream. He grabbed his almost empty waterskin and dunked it into the cool stream. Blood on his hands that had begun to dry billowed out in the current and he realized he should wash himself as well. He didn’t remember whether the dragon had scored any blows, he ached all over and was covered in blood but could not determine whether any of it was his own.

Without bothering to disrobe he wandered into the stream and cupped double-handfuls of water and poured it over himself, rubbing at his stained armor and scrubbing at his thick red beard and hair. When he felt cleansed, and somewhat refreshed, he climbed out of the stream and began the arduous task of climbing back up the slope to where he’d left the scene of the battle. Along the way he gathered twigs and small logs for his fire.

When he reached the top of the slope he saw the woman had hardly moved. He dumped his firewood and proceeded sparking his flint against the edge of his axe. Soon he had a fire going.

He knew that to cleanse the woman’s wounds would require touching her again, and he knew how strongly she insisted against it. He debated the issue for several minutes, going through other tasks to put off the one he didn’t wish to attend.

But finally he had to address the issue. He wandered back to the woman, furs and a bowl of warmed water in his hands. He dropped to his knees beside her and spoke. “We need to cleanse those wounds. I know you don’t like being touched, but I don’t think you’re capable of doing it yourself. Please don’t curse me, or kill me, but I feel it must be done.”

And with that he reached out with the first dampened fur and wiped at her face.

[Deilakrion]

The creature had thought she had been abandoned. The only faint surprise she felt was that he had not killed her before leaving. She faded, unaware of time, and it seemed between one blink and the next he was back at her side. His words were indecipherable buzzing, and she thought, Ah, the flesh returns to kill a creature. Where was her knife, and where was her hand supposed to be holding it? She was deliciously numb, and her lips parted to warn him off when his own hand descended upon her face, to crush or maim.

The touch did neither.

He stroked with fur over her skin, rasping it and wakening the nerves with a thrill of sudden feeling. She blinked, and it was gone, and then another blink and it was proven real again. He was taunting her! The flesh would kill and strip from bone all the sacred layers of the creature the Hunt had laid to rest over time as proof of skill. She tried to lift hero own arm and flinched at the rattle and groan of bone and muscle it provoked.

Deilakrion's eyes widened and narrowed, pupils gone brilliant with reflected light, like a cat in the darkness. She was suddenly focused on Brakk and Brakk alone with terrible clarity, and her voice when she spoke came forth as though from one possessed: "Do not touch!"

Deilakrion wavered, purpose almost translucent under her skin gone greyish from the poison, and her expression changed minutely from pain to confusion to a deeper struggle. Then, as if it had reached her brain, she seized in a sudden gripping spasm, again, and again, until with one great last gasp she lay still but for the littlest of tremors. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her mouth would secrete drool slowly until it pooled out of her mouth. She was, if not exactly unconscious, momentarily paralyzed.

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk jumped as the naked Elf convulsed. He was afraid for a moment that touching the madwoman had provoked a seizure and certain that her madness would now be transferred to him. He waited, frozen with terror, for the madness to strike him, but after several seconds he felt no different.

Slowly, he relaxed. Cleansed of at least some of the filth, the woman didn’t seem quite as grotesque as before. Sure, her skin was still leathery, and grey with poison and blood-loss, and scarred horribly from this battle and uncounted others, but she seemed more like a person who needed help and less like some wild animal driven crazy by injury.

He studied the arm she’d tried to move. The bones of the lower arm were obviously broken, but at least they hadn’t punctured the skin. When the woman had tried to lift it, she shifted the bones further from their proper alignment. Brakk knew they must be set and splinted if they were to heal right. And he knew the woman was adamant in her determination not to be touched.

But, she’d convulsed and now lay still, apparently unconscious. Perhaps he could set the bones and splint the arm before she drifted back to awareness. If the pain of having bones set didn’t wake her.

He grabbed her hand firmly in his right hand, wrapped his left hand around her elbow, and pulled, hard but steady, and saw the bones shift under the skin. When it seemed they were lined up the way they should be he slowly released the tension, and grabbed for several sticks he’d laid aside for splints.

Quickly, he placed strips of fur along the arm and applied the splints and tied it all together with leather thongs.

When finished he set back on his heels. “You’re going to hate me when you wake up, aren’t you?” He stared at her another moment. “Maybe if there’s food ready when you wake you won’t hate me too bad.”

And he stood, wincing at the soreness in his own body, and moved back to the fire to prepare them an early dinner from his stored meat.

[Deilakrion]

Brakk was a good and honest man, as he tended to Deilakrion without any clear reason to. Despite her snarling and bloody mindedness, and not necessarily without any motive other than being a decent person. She, however, was unaware of this. She had stopped being present with him the second her body had convulsed. She'd gone deeper. Much deeper.

Maybe it was since she'd met him, or since she'd met the beast, but things hadn't gone in their neat little way as she'd anticipated. She'd felt funny, off balanced. It was as if she'd gripped her life securely all the time she'd spent away from other people, and it was up to the present that she could count on it always being within her grasp. But he'd challenged her perceptions, and despite a strong inclination to remain as she was she'd felt something in her twisting, budding, and bursting forth towards her consciousness.

It wasn't until he'd tried to touch her, yet again, that the unknown thing had touched her, cracked open her lips and spoke with her voice, with her, to accomplish an end Deilakrion had wanted.

Wasn't that what she wanted?

Wasn't that what you wanted?

She didn't like being touched.

You don't want to be touched.

She could take care of herself.

You could use help dealing with foolish fleshes.

No. No!

She'd turned away from the bulge, and snarled like a wolf for it to quieten, to reassert her grip on herself. Its response had not been what she'd expected in that quarter second, and it was almost as if she'd been overwhelmed. She'd tried to jerk away from it, to gather herself up and observe. But then it fell upon her like an earthquake --

--a tsunami --

--an avalanch --

and then her sight had failed her. Her mind shut down. She could sense, in the wary restlessness of the sleeper, that she should be doing something else. She should fight, as she had always fought, and claim her victory with blood and death. But that conviction, backed by the holy unholy Hunt, had been ripped away and sent her tumbling through unconscious dreamscapes of tattered old memories. And what passed there was not how it ought to be. There was a wrongness. It wasn't what she wanted.

Wasn't this what you always wanted? Because something different was happening. Brakk was not like the fleshes are all the same and you'd be best remembering that what she expected to find . . .

What?

She knew, but wasn't aware, that she was trying to waken but couldn't as if something was holding her back with vicious teeth pressed against her and only if she would give in without trust and everything was muddled so she just . . .

She inhaled sharply, and choked on the breath, and coughed until her eyes watered. She smelled something meaty, she felt dizzy and sick, and she couldn't remember something important that she knew she should. She saw Brakk, bent, and there was something about his form that -- that --

She snarled. Fleshes weren't to be trusted. She had to remember that.

"Give food." She bared her teeth at him, tried to move, and sank back to the ground gasping for air.

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk heard her gasp and cough. He could hear her struggling with her voice. “Give food,” she managed.

He straightened, turned and saw her smiling at him. Well, it was like a smile, sort of. She had pulled her lips back from her teeth a bit. Still, while hoping it was a smile, Brakk couldn’t help but picture a wounded animal snarling with bared fangs. He shuddered slightly.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” he began as he reached for a wooden platter with several pieces of rare meat and a few steamed vegetables he’d managed to scrounge from the nearby forest floor. “And I’m happy to hear you’re hungry. You need to eat to provide your body the energy it needs to heal.”

He brought the plate over to her and knelt beside her head. “I know you don’t like to be touched, but I had to do something about that arm,” he gestured towards the splinted arm.

“Can you sit up enough to eat? I could help hold your head, but I don’t think you’d like me doing that. But ...” he paused, gathering his courage, “I will do it if you can’t sit up on your own, whether you like it or not. After all, you can’t go and die on me, we made a deal.”

And with a smile and a wink he said, “I helped you kill the dragon, now you have to help me find people.”

[Deilakrion]

The glare Deilakrion trained on Brakk was wicked, and full of vile promises that had nothing to do with finding anyone, unless maybe it had to do with tipping Brakk into a grave with all the other dead fleshes. Deilakrion rather liked that thought, and the snarl lessened into something more darkly humorous; whether it was an improvement probably depended on who was looking at it. Towards Brakk, it was unlikely to be reassuring in the least.

She scorned his words by speaking over him, and she told him quite pointedly to be quiet. "This creature not like fleshy words." She huffed, and struggled up enough that she could use her good arm to snatch at the platter of food. She had not had many breaks before, for any bone, and the aching, shooting, stabbing pain that radiated outward until surely her whole arm felt crushed and pricked from within as if it might cause her arm to fall off. But she could see no festering wound, no place where rot might set in, so she ignored it best she could. Same as any other wound. But this one was worse; how could she hunt? How long until it was better?

She fumed silently, turning her face away from the flesh as she stuffed her mouth sloppily. She all but ignored the vegetables, picking around them to get to the meat, and licking at the juices that puddled on the plate. When all but soggy remnants of prodded vegetables remained -- pushed around the plate in an effort to find bits of meat hidden by their forms -- she slung it down at the ground by Brakk's feet. "More." She said quite primly, smug as any house cat caught a bird.

She watched him with old eyes gone sour with the knowledge that this other person might have to die sooner or later, and sharp without regret if it were to be sooner rather than later. Feral eyes, soaked deep with the wild that had penetrated her long ago. She, perhaps, was less trustworthy than the flesh that so drove her to consternation.

[BrakkUrGrath]

Brakk scowled at the creature’s manners. Even for one as barbaric as his people were, Brakk was astonished at the woman’s eating habits. But she managed to sit up on her own, shove food into her mouth (he noted she avoided the vegetables), and snarl at him with such venom it sent shivers down his spine.

He heard her disapproval of wasting breath on speech but ignored it. But when she threw the platter at his feet, demanding more, with a glare that seemed full of unspoken threats and vile hatred, Brakk felt his own anger rising.

He stood, placing hands on his hips. “I’ve been nice and I’ve been patient, and I understand you’re some sort of wild woman, but I’m just about fed up with your attitude.”

He kicked the platter back towards her, scattering what remnants of vegetables that stuck to it when it skittered across the ground. “I’ve hunted for you, cooked for you, cleaned your wounds and bound your arm, and yet you glare at me like I’m some vicious animal planning to kill you in your sleep.”

He gave her his fiercest glare, one that had made many young Human males he’d encountered on various battlefields tremble in their boots. “You can get your own damn food; it’s just over here by MY fire.” And with that he stomped away from her and flopped down on the forest floor near his fire, grabbing a haunch of boar meat and stuffing it in his own mouth as he continued to glare at her.