[div style="margin-top: 30px; text-align: center; font-family: timesnewroman; font-size: 35px; color: white;"]pierce parker
☀ — just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me
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Pierce was not unfamiliar with the violence and cruelty of other people. For some, the possibility that people treated others the way they did was unfathomable. For Pierce, it was almost the norm. He had grown up around captures and attacks and wars and all that bullshit. At just six months old he had been captured by an enemy and dragged off into their territory, where they did a number of horrible, unspeakable things to him with their own paws and weapons. He’d barely made it out alive, and not long after, he’d been captured again. He had fought in raids numerous times and even been murdered once. Hell, his best friend had been a serial killer. He was more than used to that shit, so he probably shouldn’t have been surprised when, on his usual patrol, he spotted Monroe’s crumpled form near the shore.
"Oh my god," The words had not been torn from his throat in the form of a scream, rather whispered, hardly audible to even himself as he hurried to the Goldenblood’s side. Monroe was completely motionless, and already, Pierce felt his heart in his throat. "You’re- you’re gonna be okay, hon," he mumbled, noting the alien scent of what he was pretty sure was the Pitt on the other’s coat. He hated to admit it, but he hadn’t known anything was wrong- he’d been a bit too recluse these last couple days to notice the other’s absence, he guessed. Though he hardly had a clue as to what he was doing, Pierce removed his satchel and began digging through it, pulling out a small handcloth and a half empty waterbottle. Monroe needed to be warmed up, didn’t he? Christ, Pierce didn’t know- he was an artist, not a doctor. The effeminate feline knew only what his sister had taught him, and if one thing was clear, it was that the other was in - or going into - shock. Fuck. Grasping desperately for it, he stuffed his satchel beneath his clanmate’s hindquarters. That was it, right? Elevate the hindquarters? It sounded right. Then, only guessing now, he wet his towl and began dabbing it at the other’s wounds, hoping to get a better look at what was happening - it was the best he could do - as he called over his shoulder, "H-hey, uh- Monroe’s hurt- like, bad! Can I g-get some help over here?" It was about all Pierce could do, but he knew they had some experienced medics around, somewhere.
"speech"
//mobile
"Oh my god," The words had not been torn from his throat in the form of a scream, rather whispered, hardly audible to even himself as he hurried to the Goldenblood’s side. Monroe was completely motionless, and already, Pierce felt his heart in his throat. "You’re- you’re gonna be okay, hon," he mumbled, noting the alien scent of what he was pretty sure was the Pitt on the other’s coat. He hated to admit it, but he hadn’t known anything was wrong- he’d been a bit too recluse these last couple days to notice the other’s absence, he guessed. Though he hardly had a clue as to what he was doing, Pierce removed his satchel and began digging through it, pulling out a small handcloth and a half empty waterbottle. Monroe needed to be warmed up, didn’t he? Christ, Pierce didn’t know- he was an artist, not a doctor. The effeminate feline knew only what his sister had taught him, and if one thing was clear, it was that the other was in - or going into - shock. Fuck. Grasping desperately for it, he stuffed his satchel beneath his clanmate’s hindquarters. That was it, right? Elevate the hindquarters? It sounded right. Then, only guessing now, he wet his towl and began dabbing it at the other’s wounds, hoping to get a better look at what was happening - it was the best he could do - as he called over his shoulder, "H-hey, uh- Monroe’s hurt- like, bad! Can I g-get some help over here?" It was about all Pierce could do, but he knew they had some experienced medics around, somewhere.
"speech"
//mobile
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