07-26-2018, 06:39 AM
[size=9pt]If he could wish for one thing, it would be to render kids impenetrable. Immune to anything the world sent their way. But the Genie seemed to be on vacation, so Moon could only hope he booked a return flight and stew in his own bitterness in the mean time.
It was hard to look at. Some little thing, collapsed in on itself, surrounded by a crimson puddle. When Moon first saw them, he was sure they were dead. That amount of blood, for such a small creature? But then he heard Gabriel speak to them, and of course it was Gabe. That feathery fucker must have some sort of censor attached to his big head that goes off whenver there's a fucked up kid within a ten mile radius. Honestly, Moon's grateful for it. As much as he keeps up the I Hate You act, having Feathers around to watch over youth who were previously left unguarded, no shelter from the World's worst inhabitants, was something they needed. And Gabriel wasn't the worst candidate for that role.
A litany of hushed curses under his maw, Moon carries himself forward on gentle footsteps and smooth movements. As much as he can manage, that is; his paw is still royally fucked, but he needs to keep himself quiet. He doesn't want to freak the kit out, but he knows there's still a chance he might. "It's alright, kid," he says, thoroughly refusing the bile that creeps up his throat. It's hard to make Moon sick, but this is something else. "I'm gonna' fix you up, okay?" He says, dropping the make shift bag from his neck and quickly rooting through it. "It's not even that bad, you'll be fine." Lies are the best medicine.
He takes a piece of cloth from his bag and folds it in a triple layer. He knows the cats in this clan don't usually carry stuff like this, but back home, lions would appear in the Doctor's den with a torn up throat by the hour. He's learned that it's worth carrying around with him. "Gabe, lift your head on three." He holds the cloth directly above the kit's neck, and, quiet, he counts down. On three, as soon as hybrid moves, Moon swiftly covers the wound with the cloth. He holds down with one paw, gentle not to hurt, but with enough pressure to hopefully stall the bleeding. He takes his cobwebs and wraps them through the cats fur, grasping to the sides of the cloth to keep it in place. There's just one thing he needs, now, but when he glances back to his bag it's nowhere to be seen.
Frustration hits him like a freight train and he clenches his teeth tight. No poppy seeds, not even any marigold to make a poultice for the bleeding. He knows the kit's already in pain beyond belief, but once the shock and adrenaline fades, it'll be so much worse. He releases a quick breath filled with barely concealed agitation. He's a fucking idiot. In a voice hushed so as the frantic feline doesn't hear him, he turns to Gabriel. "I need someone else from the medic team. Peri, Lessa, fuckin-- Anyone. I'm all out of herbs."
It was hard to look at. Some little thing, collapsed in on itself, surrounded by a crimson puddle. When Moon first saw them, he was sure they were dead. That amount of blood, for such a small creature? But then he heard Gabriel speak to them, and of course it was Gabe. That feathery fucker must have some sort of censor attached to his big head that goes off whenver there's a fucked up kid within a ten mile radius. Honestly, Moon's grateful for it. As much as he keeps up the I Hate You act, having Feathers around to watch over youth who were previously left unguarded, no shelter from the World's worst inhabitants, was something they needed. And Gabriel wasn't the worst candidate for that role.
A litany of hushed curses under his maw, Moon carries himself forward on gentle footsteps and smooth movements. As much as he can manage, that is; his paw is still royally fucked, but he needs to keep himself quiet. He doesn't want to freak the kit out, but he knows there's still a chance he might. "It's alright, kid," he says, thoroughly refusing the bile that creeps up his throat. It's hard to make Moon sick, but this is something else. "I'm gonna' fix you up, okay?" He says, dropping the make shift bag from his neck and quickly rooting through it. "It's not even that bad, you'll be fine." Lies are the best medicine.
He takes a piece of cloth from his bag and folds it in a triple layer. He knows the cats in this clan don't usually carry stuff like this, but back home, lions would appear in the Doctor's den with a torn up throat by the hour. He's learned that it's worth carrying around with him. "Gabe, lift your head on three." He holds the cloth directly above the kit's neck, and, quiet, he counts down. On three, as soon as hybrid moves, Moon swiftly covers the wound with the cloth. He holds down with one paw, gentle not to hurt, but with enough pressure to hopefully stall the bleeding. He takes his cobwebs and wraps them through the cats fur, grasping to the sides of the cloth to keep it in place. There's just one thing he needs, now, but when he glances back to his bag it's nowhere to be seen.
Frustration hits him like a freight train and he clenches his teeth tight. No poppy seeds, not even any marigold to make a poultice for the bleeding. He knows the kit's already in pain beyond belief, but once the shock and adrenaline fades, it'll be so much worse. He releases a quick breath filled with barely concealed agitation. He's a fucking idiot. In a voice hushed so as the frantic feline doesn't hear him, he turns to Gabriel. "I need someone else from the medic team. Peri, Lessa, fuckin-- Anyone. I'm all out of herbs."
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]