Run, run, don't look back

The taste of iron stung the back of his mouth and his throat, one Clay had grown to know well. His gray pelt had been tattered once more, disheveled and smeared in the spatterings of crimson, both his own and @Vengeance's. His whole body had been lit on fire and it burned, a sensation that feasted on him and no matter how much Clay tried to ignore it, it only grew louder, louder until it was choking and deafening. 

He couldn't stop running, he had to keep going -- if the Bogeyman caught him again, he'd be dead. But his limbs ached something awful, stinging and begging for release, and as Clay hurried through the Blackwoods, everything blurred into nothing. His shoulder crashed into the nearest tree, forcing him to come to a bitter halt, emerald eyes fixating on the ground. Everything blurred together into a mixture of colors, and Clay blinked, struggling to breathe.

He bled from different wounds, all varying in severity. His only solace was knowing the Warlord would be licking wounds of his own by now, wounds given to him by Clay. By his teeth and his claws. 

He fought to regain his composure, to calm his breathing and to push past the pain that ebbed in waves across him. He had to keep going, he had to get out of the Reach and far, far away. 

@Nike

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Nike had been there, Sanguinus lingering somewhere in the darkness. She heard then, though, the crash against a tree. Her attention caught, she made her way through. She closed the distance quickly, seeing a male looking down towards the ground. The scent of blood loomed in the air. The furs on the back of her neck stood up, on guard.

But she assumed that it was his own. As well as...

Her breath caught in her throat. Vengeance.

There was a clock ticking in the back of her mind. She knew then that they didn't have much time. Nike bounded over, careful not to touch him to assure that her scent wouldn't linger on him. If Sanguinus were watching from the bush, she'd halt him with a stare, a shake of her head. Her attention returned to the greyscale man. He needed to get out, but he would die from blood loss at this rate. Shit. Nike would have to think fast on her feet. It was a no-brainer. This wolf needed to go.

"I'll be quick." Nike would say to him, shaking her head up and down waiting for him to confirm that she was indeed standing there in front of him. Nike would look around, searching for the nearest herb cache that she kept in this area. There.

"Stay," she'd say, before bolting off only a few yards away. She'd dig and dig into the tomb she dug, pulling out the most immediate pain remedying herbs she could muster. While she may consider herself a master of puppets, she couldn't deny the way that her heart lurched in her chest with anxiety. She stuttered over an herb, "Fuck," she'd curse, a curse only for herself to hear. On the outside, she was a proper lady, but in these moments fueled only by adrenaline, she was just an ordinary wolf escaping the Bogeyman.

When she came back, herbs in her mouth, she had already begun to grind them with her teeth. Fern leaves hung from her jaw, too. She spat out the ball of herbs before him. "Eat it." She'd say, before flattening out the fern leaves with her paw. "What's your name?"

Time was ticking. But she needed to know.

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There was a flash, a rending blur of blonde that immediately caused the wolf to recoil, to flinch back, ready once more to scrap and defend himself. He'd go down fighting, squirming in the dirt, a writhing mess of blood and fur. He would hiss and roar, bear his fangs so that all would know he'd been a worthy opponent. Someone that his bloodline could have been proud of. Yet, it wasn't necessary. The hushed voice of a woman fell upon his ears and the wolf strained to make out what she uttered beneath the roar of his blood within his ears, his blurred vision swaying as his head lifted only briefly. 

He seethed past his clenched bridgework and practically exhaled his words, gurgling on the blood that still choked within his throat in warm globs. “W-what... who-” He could hardly finish his sentence before he stumbled, tripping over his own paws. He hissed when he pushed his weight back up onto the tree, scraping one of his open wounds against the harsh, dead bark. Gods, please... Make the pain stop. This was his punishment for picking fights he couldn't possibly win, not in his current condition. 

She had disappeared and Clay hadn't even noticed, not until she reappeared again. Time seemed to lull into one infinite loop. When she ordered him to eat the ball of chewed... whatever, Clay hadn't the energy to wrinkle his nose in disgust and simply complied, neck leaning down so that he could lick the pulp up from the ground, eventually taking it into his teeth and swallowing it. It was foul and bitter with a consistency that made him want to hurl, but it was better than the blood that soured and sullied his taste buds. 

She asked for his name and for a moment Clay blanked, staring at her, gawking as if he didn't know what language she spoke. “I...” He coughed and brought his leg up to wipe the blood that dribbled from his nostrils, inhaling to steady himself. To clear his mind. “Clay... Apaata.” Prince of Easthollow he nearly said, but it was an introduction that no longer belonged to him. 

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The injured one had a name. Clay. Maybe it would've been best if she hadn't asked. To live in ignorance, to be unquestionably unnoticed by Vengeance if he asked of where this...Clay escaped to. But now she was in on this to. She made her choice. She made it the second she picked those herbs for him. To help him, instead of rat him out to the bogeyman. But she had no regrets. For once, Nike thought she could do good by cleaning out the trash within Nightwalkers. She would be raising her own brood sooner or later, and there shouldn't be any vermin scraping the floors.

She'd have her own to clean it up. But this Clay wouldn't stand a chance. His clock was already ticking. The blood poured from his nose was wiped away with his forearm. It clogged her senses, put her in a frenzy. Get your shit together, she wanted to smack her head against a fucking rock for being so panicked about this. With a deep breath, she'd nod her head and give him a kind smile with her oddly pearly white teeth.

"It's nice to meet you Clay." But she wouldn't give out her own name. No. That would be too risky. Who knew what would be lingering in the shadows, what kind of rats would report back to Vengeance. She would live her life in total paranoia if it meant that this stranger could live from his poisoned grasp.

Nike would pick the ferns that she had collected and begin to move closer to him. She didn't even ask as she plated them over the open wounds that were spilling over with blood. If he snapped at her, she let it happen. Better have it so that she was injured, maybe, to make this believeable. But she was also very pregnant, and lounging around in her den was also an appropriate reaction. Nonetheless, directly after this she would be drenching herself in a bath full of lilies and roses to glean herself of his scent. Of the smell of blood.

The ferns stuck with ease. The blood acted as its own adhesive, and would dry in no time. But the movement may loosen them, his running. She'd take her bet. Her attempt was all that mattered, not if it worked. She even had little hope that he would survive throughout the night, but she didn't have room in her brain to think about the hypothetical of the following day.

"You're going to be just fine." She'd coo at him, but wouldn't make eye contact as she focused applying the last fern leaf to the open wound that she could spot from his position. He looked like a fucking mess. "You hear me? You'll be alright."

Who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself? Both. Both was the answer. Nike had to think that this man could live if she continued to supply him with treatment.

"Travel North. As North as you can. Don't stop until you're far, far away from here." Nike's voice would be hushed but firm. Resolute. This was the only way. "Do you understand?" She'd snap at him a little louder, making sure that he was listening and not reeling on the shock from his attack, or losing consciousness from the blood loss.

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