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where the tracks end - Damien - 08-11-2025
Damien had asked Theea to join him for this hunt, and he was grateful she’d agreed. You didn’t go after a big, angry cat without someone watching your back. The Citadel walls were far behind now, the freshest trail they could find leading them out across the snowfields.
The cold bit deeper the farther they went, a clean, sharp cold that scraped the throat and filled the lungs like glass. Snow unrolled ahead in a white, unbroken plain, flat in the way that lies are flat—hiding drifts and ice pockets under its smooth face. Beyond, the Fangs clawed at the horizon. Once they’d been sharp enough to rip the sky; now they were hunched and broken, their hollowed guts spilling the dark mouths of mines and tunnels to the open air.
Damien kept an even pace, the crunch of snow under his boots steady, his coat drawn close over layers of leather and fur. The old thing had seen more seasons than some hunters in the Citadel, and much like him, it was still in one piece because it was built to last. The crossbow slung across his back was much the same; mid-sized, serviceable, stock worn smooth where his hands always found it. He kept a quiver of bolts at his hip, fletched and sharpened by his own hand. A hunting knife rode on his belt, its smaller skinning twin tucked into his boot. The rest of his life fit in the old leather pack: food, rope, repair tools, enough to last him a couple weeks if it came to it.
Now and again, he slowed to glance over his shoulder. Not because he thought Theea couldn’t keep up—he’d seen enough to know she could—but because the snow could swallow a person between one breath and the next. He’d learned that lesson young, and it wasn’t one he meant to repeat today.
When she drew even with him, he gave her the short version of what they were walking into. [say]“It started out picking off anyone who wandered too far from town alone. But lately it’s been getting bolder… coming closer to the villages.”[/say] He cut himself off before the details got ugly. [say]“Last attack was this morning. Blood’s still fresh.”[/say] The words came out like frost on steel.
The wind shifted, and he stopped. Stillness settled over him, the kind that wasn’t hesitation but calculation; his mind sorting pieces into place. He hitched the crossbow higher on his shoulder, eyes tracking the silhouette of the ridges ahead. [say]“Its tracks always lead back to the Fangs, that's where the hunters lose the trail,”[/say] he continued, [say]“but after a meal and with the cold closing in... it’ll want the safety of its den tonight. That’s when we take it. Before it can vanish into another week’s worth of tracks.”[/say]
His gaze swept the ridgeline, then slipped back to Theea, searching her face. [say]"How are you faring?"[/say] he asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read her like he would a trail—seeking not just what lay on the surface, but the subtle shifts in posture, the silent language in her eyes.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-11-2025
I keep a few paces behind Damien, my legs shorter but my stride steady, refusing to let the gap grow. He hasn’t slowed for me, but he hasn’t rushed ahead either, and I’m grateful for that—no mollycoddling, no questioning whether I can keep up. Just trust. The snow crunches under my boots no matter how carefully I try to step, the sound sharp in the otherwise empty expanse.
Every weapon I own is on me. Three throwing knives, two pale daggers, my hunting bow—strung tight over my shoulder with a leather scrap serving as a makeshift quiver for the four arrows I could scrounge. It’s not much, but it’s mine. The cold presses in like a living thing, crawling under layers of wool and leather, trying to sink into my bones. I keep flexing my fingers against it, feeling the stiffness even through my gloves. My dad’s old coat swallows me whole, heavy and worn at the seams, but it’s warm. It smells faintly of leather and pine smoke, and wearing it feels like carrying a piece of home on my back.
When Damien asked me to hunt with him, I’d been thrilled—and when I learned why, there was no question. A man-eating snow leopard? That needed to be stopped. I wasn’t about to let my friend go after it alone.
I listen as he explains, his voice cutting through the wind, his words sharp with conviction. My brows knit tighter with every detail. Someone had died this morning. That was fresh enough that their blood might still be staining the snow. It couldn’t happen again. Not if we got to it first.
The wind shifts, and he stills. I come up beside him, rubbing my fingers together as my eyes follow his across the open tundra. The cold gnaws, but when he glances at me and asks how I’m faring, my brows rise, like I’m surprised he asked, though I shouldn’t be. He’s always been kind to me, even when I think he hadn’t wanted to be.
I give him an honest smile.
[say]“Freezing,”[/say] I admit, breath misting between us, [say]“but I’ve got a feeling there’ll be plenty of adrenaline to change that later, when we find it,”[/say] when, not if, [say]”and when we put it down.”[/say] My voice is steady enough, though under it I can feel the pulse of nerves. Void-creatures—serpents, luxere—I’ve faced those. But a big, hungry carnivore with five knives in each foot, one that can blend almost seamlessly into the snow? That’s a different kind of dangerous. It should scare me more than it does. Instead, I feel sharper. Focused.
Shifting the bow on my back, I squint at the jagged, sun-lined ridge ahead. The snow before us glitters faintly in the late afternoon light. Then something catches my eye—a cluster of trees pressed against a cliffside, their shadows deep against the snow. My gaze snags on the jagged score marks raked down the trunk of one, the grooves fresh and deep.
[say]“There,”[/say] I murmur, nodding toward it.
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-12-2025
Damien’s eyes drifted to the cluster of trees Theea had pointed out, lingering on the jagged gouges clawed deep into the bark. Fresh. The beast had to be close, he thought—and oh, was it close...
Somewhere on the rocky slopes above, the snow leopard was watching, waiting for the hunters to step into her domain. For now, the two of them remained unaware of the cunning that stalked them, and the cunning bid its time.
He met Theea’s steady gaze and gave a slow, approving nod. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. [say]“Good eye. We should get a closer look.”[/say] To see just how fresh those marks were. To find if they led anywhere.
Adjusting the leather strap, Damien reached for his crossbow, drawing it out with the quiet precision of a man who’s done this dance too many times to count. [say]“From here on, we move slow. Watch every shadow. Follow those scars on the trees. Anything feels off — stop and listen. Predators are dangerous enough when they’re not maneaters.”[/say]
His gaze flicked back to Theea once more, a silent question there before he turned toward the claw marks. Shoulders squared against the biting wind, he stepped forward. Snow crunched steady beneath his boots. This was no longer a trail. It was the threshold into the Fangs.
With deliberate steps and senses keyed sharp, he led the way into the broken mountainsides.
At the cluster of trees, Damien pushed his crossbow back over his shoulder and knelt, running calloused fingers over the bark. Splinters dusted his skin. [say]“It’s here, alright...”[/say]
He looked down over the ridge they’d crested. Below, a small valley of shattered rock lay nestled between jagged cliffs. A patch of disturbed snow caught his eye, faint but telling. Tracks leading deeper in.
He signaled Theea and notched a bolt to his crossbow, nodding toward the tracks. His breath whispered white in the cold air. Quiet now, deliberate, he pressed on. The hunt had truly begun.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-12-2025
I can feel my grin tug wider when Damien smirks and nods, the quiet weight of his approval landing warm despite the cold. I nod back, pleased, and slip my bow from my shoulder. Hunting’s never been my strongest suit, but I’d gone enough times with my parents to know my way around a shot—and neither of them would have tolerated me missing a target.
His instructions are met with a silent nod, my steps sinking softer into the snow, my gaze sharpening to catch every shadow. I don’t take it as condescension—he’s got more years at this than I’ve even been alive. If he’s telling me how to move, it’s worth listening.
We reach the trees, and I keep one eye on him, memorizing how he moves, the way he checks the bark, the way his fingers read the story in the wood. The other eye sweeps the rest of our surroundings. Then he signals, and I follow his gesture to the patch of disturbed snow. I draw one of my four arrows slow and careful, fitting it to the string, and trail after him down the ridge into the broken teeth of the Fangs.
When we reach the tracks, I crouch for a better look. The edges are crisp, clean—untouched by wind. [say]“Hasn’t even had time for the snow to settle,”[/say] I murmur. My breath ghosts in front of me as I glance toward the narrow gorge ahead. [say]“Wish I had a wolf shift like my parents right about now. I could just sniff it out.”[/say] The joke is quiet, but my voice is steadier than I feel.
I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on the narrow cut of stone and shadow where the tracks lead. The prickle starts at the base of my skull, crawling down my spine—like invisible eyes are on us. I lock eyes with him and nod. [say]”I’ve got your back,”[/say] I promise, and press on.
I keep my arrow ready, fingers flexing against the string, every step deliberate. My focus is on our surroundings, the ridges above, the folds of shadow. I trust Damien to lead us.
RE: where the tracks end - Random Event - 08-12-2025
Congratulations! You probably just wandered into a breath snatch!
Yeah, that glittering cloud of glittering frost wasn’t friendly either. Who knew?
You’ve encountered a Breath Snatch. This counts as an uncommon creature encounter for the purposes of levelling, but does not count as a Random Event for levelling or MP. There will be no further admin/re intervention. If you choose to follow this creature, you do so at your own risk, however, just having it in this thread is enough to satisfy your levelling requirements. (You may not kill this creature without admin permission. )
Breath Snatch (uncommon) - A minor Halo nuisance, the Breath Snatch is a small elemental spirit that lingers in open areas on cold days. They're easiest to notice on bright days, a concentrated cloud of glittering frost lingering in the air, but if not noticed and walked into, the elemental will disperse in a puff of freezing air, often freezing the breath in the lungs of whomever was unlucky enough to come across it. It doesn't seem to possess enough sentience to be truly malevolent. Large groups of the spirits are rare, but potentially deadly if walked into unknowingly.
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-14-2025
Damien’s eyes flicked to the patch of disturbed snow, then back up to the ridge above. [say]“Good catch,”[/say] he murmured, voice low enough to keep the wind from carrying it. He crouched briefly to inspect the tracks himself, hands brushing the powdery surface, noting the depth, the spacing, the subtle drag of claws. [say]“She’s keeping to high ground.”[/say]
He rose, drawing a slow, deliberate breath that hissed in the cold. [say]“Keep your arrow ready, like you are.”[/say] He let his gaze linger a fraction too long on her, reading her posture, the way she flexed her fingers along the bowstring, the slight tightening around her shoulders. She wasn’t a novice, and that mattered. A lot.
[say]“Alright,”[/say] he said, finally moving forward. He stepped into the narrow cut of stone and shadow where the tracks led. Snow crunched lightly underfoot, rhythm steady but careful, every step deliberate. He kept a hand on the crossbow’s stock, ready to lift it at a second’s notice.
The trek into the Fangs stretched on, the terrain jagged and uneven, broken ridges and half-collapsed tunnels marking the way like scars on the earth. Damien didn’t bother speaking at every turn—both of them were hunters, both of them tracking, both attuned to the silence and the potential for danger. He kept a loose eye on Theea, though.
They crested a ridge and Damien paused, glancing down into a small hollow, rocks piled haphazardly like the bones of the mountains themselves. The tracks vanished briefly under a fresh drift, but he spotted the faintest drag where the snow had been disturbed just enough. His chest tightened slightly, a pulse of anticipation. The Fangs weren’t just broken peaks; they were a labyrinth of stone and darkness, perfect for a predator to hide.
He signaled towards the hollow ahead, lowering his crossbow and gesturing for her to approach cautiously. [say]“Looks like we’re close. That could be its den. Stay sharp—”[/say]
He took the first careful step down, then froze. Something in the air shifted. The snow around them glittered with a sudden, unnatural shimmer, and the breath caught in his lungs like a fist had squeezed them. A thin cloud of frost hung ahead, drifting across the hollow like smoke; bright, glittering, almost playful, but sharper than it had any right to be.
[say]“Breath Snatch,”[/say] Damien muttered, his lungs straining a moment longer. It was a minor nuisance, no threat in itself, but its presence was a reminder: the Fangs had eyes everywhere. He flexed his fingers on the crossbow string, forcing his pulse steady, and glanced at Theea.
Then he saw it: just past the hollow, a shadow moved with a subtle, almost fluid grace. The subtle scrape of stone against stone gave him only a heartbeat to react, and in that heartbeat, the hollow revealed its secret—the den.
Before Damien could process or realize, the snow leopard struck. Muscles coiled like springs, paws pressing against the snow with deadly grace, claws arcing toward Theea as if it had chosen her first. Instinct snapped through him like lightning. He threw himself forward, planting a boot, bracing his arms, and met the predator’s full weight. It happened so fast he didn't have time to shout a word of warning.
The impact hit him like a falling boulder, snow spraying around them, claws ripping through his leather coat, his crossbow lost to him - landed somewhere in a snowdrift. Breath left him in a sharp gasp, ribs compressing against the force, as the world tipped sideways. The leopard’s eyes gleamed with cold calculation, every strike meant to dominate, and for a single heartbeat, time stretched.
Damien barely had a second to curse under his breath before he realized the truth: the beast had chosen the moment, chosen them, and he had unwittingly led them straight into its trap.
One arm shot up to keep the jaws from closing on his throat, the other fumbling for the knife at his hip.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-15-2025
I nod, a faint smile tugging at my mouth at his reminder to keep my arrow ready. Somehow the way his gaze lingers a touch too long on me before moving on does more than the words—it’s quiet confirmation that I’m doing something right. No correction, no second glance to see if I’m fumbling. It makes me stand taller. My cheeks color.
I follow him in steady silence, my eyes scanning every ridge and shadow we pass. The afternoon light is thinning, shadows stretching longer, the first hints of twilight creeping into the hollows. If we don’t find it soon, we’ll have to turn back—deep cold and darkness are a predator’s allies, not ours, and cats like this can see in the dark like it’s midday.
When he speaks again, I keep my eyes on the rocks above, not wanting to lose my focus. That’s when I hear it—the sharp, choking drag of breath in his throat. My arrowpoint dips as I step toward him. [say]“Damien—?”[/say] Concern flickers in my chest, but then I catch the glittering puff drifting past. I know that shimmer. A breath snatch. By the time it flits away harmlessly, he’s breathing again. I smirk, biting down the comment that nearly escapes—about the great hunter being caught by a cloud of glitter. Instead, I just give him an amused look.
The amusement dies the second his eyes shift past me. I don’t even turn before he’s stepping between me and something moving fast. My breath catches—and then he’s gone from in front of me, slammed sideways under a blur of muscle and fur. The crossbow skitters out of reach, and my ears are full of the snarl of a snow leopard, low and cold as the wind itself.
I don’t think, just move. My pulse is roaring in my head as I draw and loose in one motion, the arrow striking deep into the cat’s flank. It barely reacts. My stomach drops.
Fuck. Is it sick? An arrow like that should’ve sent any healthy-minded beast running.
I spot Damien’s crossbow in the snow—closer than I’d hoped. Stronger than my bow. My best chance. I let my own drop and sprint for it, snow kicking up at my boots. The bolt’s still seated. I lunge forward, almost on top of the leopard’s back as I fire point blank for its head. It twists toward me, and the shot slams into its shoulder instead, and that’s all it takes for its attention to turn on me.
It hits me like a wave, claws raking across my ribs. I gasp, pain flaring white-hot—it makes the antler to my arm from the luxere feel like nothing. I don’t even have time for the [say]“shit”[/say] on my tongue before the cat’s on me.
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-15-2025
Pain shot up Damien’s arm, sharp and biting where the snow leopard’s jaws clamped around him. He gritted his teeth, the hiss of leather and piercing teeth mingling with the raw ache of impact. Every breath was ragged, every pulse a hammer in his skull, but he didn’t let the pain dictate his movement. He could feel it radiating down, hot, white-hot pain, and for a heartbeat the world contracted into teeth, claws, and the cold bite of the snow beneath him.
The arrow struck, and the cat barely flinched. It shook him like a ragdoll instead, and the knife at his hip, so close a second ago, was now just a sliver of hope buried beneath the weight of muscle and fur. Damien’s teeth clenched, and a low, guttural snarl tore from him—a mix of pain, anger, and sheer defiance. The Fangs had thrown him, the predator had dared, and he wasn’t about to surrender without blood in return.
Through the haze of white-hot pain and adrenaline, he caught Theea moving. Crossbow in hand, stepping into the space behind the beast. He saw the flicker of intention in her motion and the shift in the leopard’s focus. Then the corrupted beast lunged, claws raking across her ribs. Pain flashed across her face in the split second after the predator’s attention snapped toward her.
[say]“NO!”[/say] the denial burst out of him, voice raw, carrying over the roar of his own heartbeat. The shout wasn’t just a warning, it was a promise. Every muscle screamed in protest from the shake of the initial impact, his arm burning where the jaws clamped, but he didn’t hesitate.
One hand yanked the hunting knife free, the slick leather sheath tearing with the motion.
With a grim twist of his body and a surge of desperation, he drove the blade into the snow leopard’s chest. The angle, brutal and precise from his position on the snow, gave him leverage; the steel sank deep, puncturing through muscle, ribs, and heart alike. The beast convulsed violently, claws raking across the hard-packed snow, its growl morphing into a strangled hiss before weight went slack against his chest.
Crimson spread across the white like fire blooming in frost. [say]“Theea,”[/say] he rasped, voice ragged and tight.
He shoved the lifeless predator off him and grabbed her before he was fully on his feet, instinct pushing him forward. He pressed close enough that the warmth of his body steadied her against the biting cold and the uneven snow. Not giving her a chance to wobble, he shifted his weight to hold her steady, almost crowding her, but it was necessary. His eyes darted over her, scanning quickly, assessing—but everything had been a blur, every second a blur of claws, teeth, and snow. [say]“It’s okay. I got you. It’s over… I'm so sorry, Theea.”[/say] The words slipped out before he could think them, an automatic apology, sharp with the weight of guilt for leading her into the Fangs.
Emotion had no place yet; there were worse things than bruised pride waiting for them. Both of them were bleeding—his arm bore the deepest of his injuries, the bite and shake of the leopard pressing dark red beneath his sleeve. Pain flared, hot and throbbing, but he forced it aside, letting years of tracking, fighting, and surviving guide his movements. Fear pressed at the edges of his mind, but it was sharpened, channeled; cold, precise, and relentless. He needed to stabilize, to survive. She needed shelter. And he needed the supplies he carried in that old, reliable kit he never left behind. He wasn’t a healer, but he could damn well make sure they lived long enough to see the morning.
Step one: find shelter.
His gaze swept the immediate terrain, almost in a panicked haze, but the Fangs offered little. Only one option: the hollow den. Not ideal, not safe, but it would do for now. He jerked his chin toward the cave. [say]“There. We stay there for the night. I’ll patch you up. Can you walk?”[/say]
He didn’t wait for her answer. She was small, light enough for him to move her himself. Without hesitation, he bent, scooped her into his arms, and carried her toward the hollow, each step deliberate against the uneven snow and broken stone. Pain flared with every movement, ribs aching, arm throbbing, but he gritted his teeth and forced it down.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-15-2025
It all happens so fast I can hardly separate the moments. The beast’s snarling face fills my vision one second, teeth bared and eyes burning, and then Damien’s voice rips through the air, raw and furious. The leopard convulses, thrashes once, and then collapses into the snow with a strangled hiss. Silence crashes in—broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the restless wind.
My hand presses against my ribs, cradling the fresh wound, breath shuddering in short gasps. My name cuts through the haze. "Damien," I blurt at once, stomach twisting at the thought of him not being okay. But then he’s shoving the carcass aside, crimson spilling bright into white, and pulling me into him before I can stumble.
I don’t wobble—adrenaline still courses hot through my limbs—but the moment the danger ebbs, the pain surges sharp and undeniable. It’s only then I notice how much blood there is. Not just mine. His. Flowing just as badly. I’m shaking, I realize distantly, but it doesn’t matter. My eyes climb to his face, reading the distress there, then flick to the red-stained snow and finally his arm where the jaws had clamped down.
I part my lips to answer when he asks if I can walk, though I know it’ll be slow, halting, clumsy at best. But before I can get the words out, he’s scooping me up. [say]“No—your arm—”[/say] I protest, breathless. The motion sparks another flare of agony along my ribs and I suck in a sharp hiss. But then I’m settled against him, my arm looped weakly around his neck for balance, and the world steadies a little. It still hurts, gods it hurts, but I know it would be far worse if I were walking.
Gratitude swells sharp in my chest, chased quickly by guilt. I know this is hurting him. And I know, just as surely, he’ll be too stubborn to put me down.
The trek is steady but agonizing, every crunch of snow measured against his injuries. When we finally reach the den and he lowers me onto a patch of bare stone out of the wind, I exhale a tight, shaking [say]“Thank you.”[/say]
I try for reassurance, for bravado. [say]“It’s really not that bad,”[/say] I manage, voice thin. But when I glance down and see the torn mess of my side, the meaty gashes weeping hot against the cold, the grimace betrays me. My smile is unsteady, but as bright as I can manage when I look back up at him. [say]“See? All my insides are where they should be.”[/say]
But it doesn’t mask the tension in my voice, nor the way my chest tightens when my gaze catches on his arm again. Worry sharpens through the haze of my own pain. [say]“Damien…”[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-16-2025
Her protests about his arm didn’t register. He ignored them, pressing forward with one priority: stop her from bleeding. Even if his own injury throbbed sharply beneath the blood smeared across his skin, hers demanded more attention. Each shallow breath she drew tugged at the cut along her ribs, and he felt the ragged edges threaten to widen with every tremor. Pain pulsed through his forearm, sharp and insistent, but he pushed it aside. Not now.
The hollow den offered shelter, it was crude but serviceable. It'd have to do for now. The ceiling forced him to duck, and the back of the cave ended in crumbled rocks and shadow. Somewhere in that darkness, a small pair of glowing eyes watched from the rubble. Damien didn’t notice. Nothing else mattered.
He fumbled desperately through his pack, fingers slick with blood, jaw clenched as he tore a strip of cloth with his teeth and gripped the contents of his survival kit in his free hand. He set them out: needle, thread, antiseptic ointment, plain cloth — everything a woodsman carries for moments like this, moments when a mistake could be fatal.
[say]“Hold this,”[/say] he said, pressing a strip of cloth to the wound on her side. His voice was low, clipped, no room for argument. [say]“Keep it tight.”[/say] He guided her smaller hand to it, steadying it against her side so she could help slow the bleeding. As soon as the blood was staunched, he turned and rummaged around like a tornado.
He poured a small measure of antiseptic into a dented tin cup, setting it by the tiny fire he’d coaxed into life at the cave’s center, his movements sharp and efficient, driven by the raw urgency of the moment. The flames served double duty: to clean the needle and to lend some warmth to her trembling body.
She tried a weak smile, tried to joke, and her attempts wrenched something inside him. His jaw tightened further. [say]“They won’t be for long if I don’t get you stitched up,”[/say] he countered, eyes darting between the ragged cut and the thread looped through the needle. There was no room for levity—only the precision of a man who had done this before, many times, under worse conditions, yet never with someone else’s life pressed so sharply into his hands.
She said his name, trying to get his attention, but he barely heard it. Every movement was hurried and yet deliberate. He returned to her side only to adjust the cloth over her ribs, pressed the antiseptic-soaked bandages in place, and prepped the needle, biting down on frustration as much as on strips of cloth.
[say]“Theea,”[/say] he said, voice low, carrying the unspoken warning of what was coming. He pressed a folded scrap of cloth to her lips, the notion gentle but persistent. [say]“Bite this.”[/say] For a heartbeat, his dark gaze swept over her face, sharp, assessing, as if memorizing every flicker of fear and defiance before he moved. It wouldn’t dull the pain, not really, but it gave her something to anchor to, a focus other than the knife-edge of the moment. It was the best he could do.
He ripped another strip of cloth from his pack, dampened it slightly with snow water, and pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. Then he grabbed the needle and thread. His hands worked fast, precise as he began the process of pulling the skin closed, puncture by puncture. He'd be sure to tie off each stitch with knots that would hold through movement and cold.
All the while, her voice—the pain, the shallow breaths, the soft curses, his name—echoed in his head. Each one pulled at his control, forcing him to swallow a tight ball of guilt. He couldn’t afford to think about the clawed ribs, the blood that had soaked both of them, or the fear that maybe he wasn’t enough. Only the stitch, only the next one, only keeping her alive until the first light of morning.
His own arm throbbed with every movement, a dull, constant pain, but he ignored it. Later, he promised himself.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-16-2025
I keep my eyes locked on him, because if I let them drift to my ribs, I’m going to faint. The pain is a living thing, sharp and burning, radiating outward until it feels like it’s in every part of me. Damien digs into his pack with frantic precision, like this is life or death, and for the first time I wonder if it is. I thought it was just claws—painful, sure, but survivable. Then his big hand covers mine, pressing the cloth firm to my side, and the heat of it jolts me into awareness of just how much blood I’m losing. I’m dizzy, but I keep the pressure steady because he asked me to, knowing how important it is.
So I watch him. Every detail. The sharp clench of his jaw, the flicker of muscle in his cheek when he tears a strip of cloth with his teeth, the near-desperation in his dark eyes. It roots me, keeps me present. Even the antiseptic sting when he presses it to my side—I hiss through my teeth, spine arching away from the burn—becomes another anchor.
Then he says my name, low and steady, and I know what’s coming. My stomach lurches when I see the needle, but his gaze pins mine, and when he presses cloth gently against my lips, I part them and bite down. I nod once, jaw set. I’m ready. Or at least I want to be. Gods, I wish Deimos’ unicorn were here.
The first stab of the needle makes me groan into the cloth, eyes squeezing shut. The second, I jerk despite myself. By the third, I break out in a cold sweat, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. I almost go under, but I force myself to look at him again, at the steady rhythm of his hands, and I match my breath to it. In, out. Bite, pull, bite. I yield to the rhythm of the pain, because if I fight it, it’ll undo me.
By the time he’s finished, I’m trembling, pale, every muscle spent. The cave feels warmer now, or maybe it’s just the feverish burn of my body trying to keep me upright. I pull the rag from my teeth and let my head tip back against the cold stone wall. My eyes sting with tears I don’t want to shed, not now. That fucking hurt.
I look back at him, my brows pulling together, and the gratitude I feel nearly knocks the breath from me. Gratitude, and guilt, because I promised to watch his back and I didn’t. My gaze catches on his arm, the mess of punctures and blood, and my chest clenches tight.
[say]“Some of those need to be closed,”[/say] I tell him, willing my hands to stop shaking as I reach toward him. My voice is weak but steady, my lips twitching into a thin smile. [say]“It’s only fair, after all that. Besides… it’ll be better with someone else doing it.”[/say]
I hold out my hand for the needle, hand steadier, pale but determined.
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-18-2025
Damien’s answer was a shake of the head. [say]“Save your strength,”[/say] he said, voice gentle and low but immovable. [say]“I’ve got it.”[/say]
The urgency that had pushed him through her stitching ebbed by degrees, and the pain in his arm came roaring up to fill the space it left behind. It wasn’t sharp anymore; it was a heavy, iron throb that kept time with his pulse. Good. Pain meant he was still here to feel it. He could use that.
He eased a bedroll from his pack and worked it open one-handed, spreading it near the fire where the heat licked the stone. The blanket followed, thick and worn but clean, and he slid it around Theea’s shoulders with a care at odds with his broad, bloody hands. [say]“Lie down if you can. Keep your breath shallow for a bit—let the stitches settle.”[/say] His fingers lingered at the edge of the blanket for a heartbeat, as if to make sure it stayed put, as if blankets could promise safety.
The fire was a fist-sized thing, more glow than flame. He fed it shavings first, then thumb-thick sticks from a bundle in his pack, coaxing it until the flames stood. Sparks climbed the cave air and gave the shadows a nervous heartbeat. He set the dented tin close to the coals and added a splash of antiseptic; the bite of it layered over the clean, metallic tang of blood.
[say]“Needle first,”[/say] he muttered, more to keep himself moving than for her benefit. He drew the needle through the flame until it glowed dull, then let it kiss the antiseptic. Thread followed. He flexed his bleeding hand once, twice, testing the grip, then braced his forearm across his knee and got to work.
The punctures weren’t uniform—some shallow tears where the teeth had slid, some deep bites where they’d clamped. He closed the worst of them with quick, neat stitches, pulling flesh together with a fisherman’s patience and a hunter’s economy: in, pull, tie; in, pull, tie. The others he dressed with ointment and tight band, saving his thread for what absolutely demanded it. He didn’t bother trying to be gentle; gentleness had no place in staying alive. He kept his jaw locked and rode out the hurt.
[say]“Talk to me,”[/say] he said without looking up, steady as a metronome. [say]“If you feel dizzy, or cold in the fingers. If the pain spikes.”[/say] It came out as instruction, but the undertow was pure worry, rough and unvarnished. When she did breathe or hiss or let a sound slip, his hands tightened reflexively, then steadied again. Her voice tugged at him, but he kept the rhythm. Stitch, knot, breathe.
RE: where the tracks end - Theea - 08-18-2025
I recognize the look on his face instantly—the immovable refusal, that sternness I’d seen years ago when I’d beg to tag along where I absolutely shouldn’t. The same look that meant no, but never don’t care. I only hope he doesn’t regret bringing me this time. That he’ll still bring me the next.
I manage a weak smile. [say]“Stubborn.”[/say]
I watch him dig into his pack with his good hand, still covered in my blood. My breathing is ragged, every inhale like glass against my ribs. And gods help me, I wonder if my mom would be disappointed to see me so close to tears. If my dad would’ve lost a sliver of pride in me. If Damien would respect me less for it.
He lays out a bedroll with all the care of someone building a shrine, then crouches to drape a blanket over my shoulders. His eyes catch mine, steady and intent, and my chest clenches tight. His hands hold the edges of a blanket a moment longer. [say]“Thank you,”[/say] is all I can manage, soft and thin.
He sets to back to work, and I hold my breath against the pull of stitches, against the sound that wants to slip from my throat, as I ease down onto the bedroll. It’s warm—so much warmer than the frosty stone floor. Damien returns to the fire, stoking it until the flames flicker high enough to breathe. The smell of antiseptic joins blood and smoke in the air, sharp enough to sting my nose.
I find myself tracing the rhythm of his work—methodical, relentless—until I realize my focus keeps slipping. My teeth chatter. I’m fucking cold. The pain, at least, is steady. And steady I can work with.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I blink, pulled back from the edge of drifting off. Breathing shallow—full breaths aren’t an option—I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, and whisper, [say]“I’m okay.”[/say] The words are thin, but I try to make them sound true.
I shift a little closer to the fire, swallowing the groan that claws its way up my throat. It’s humiliating, how bad this hurts. Just scratches—deep ones, sure, from a very large predator—but still. One strike, and I’m down. Shame burns almost as hot as the wound. My fists tighten in the blanket, and so I look at him instead. At the way his hands move, every stitch its own promise. His expression carved into sharp lines, as though nothing else in the world exists but this.
And before I can think better of it, the words tumble out: [say]“If I die in here, you better tell everyone I went down fighting a bear with my fists, and took it down with me. A really big one. Covered in spikes. With fangs like swords.”[/say] My voice is breathless, my smile crooked, but it’s there—a desperate stab at levity, a flicker of mischief through the pain. I make the mistake of adjusting my position closer to the fire again, and I clear my throat around the groan. [say]”If you weren’t here stopping that from happening, what would you be doing right now? What do you do when you’re not hunting? Or working. Don’t say work.”[/say]
RE: where the tracks end - Damien - 08-18-2025
[say]“When it matters… yes, I am,”[/say] he admitted, the words quick and almost reflexive, like admitting stubbornness was more virtue than flaw. He didn’t elaborate, because he didn’t have to—Theea already knew.
He noticed the small things. The slight hitch in her breath, the way her fists tightened around the blanket despite her brave face. She tried to hide it, but he knew. He felt the weight of having brought her into this danger, a twinge of guilt mixing with relief that she was still here, still alive.
[say]“I’d probably be bleeding out if you weren’t here,”[/say] he said, pausing to level a steady gaze on her. [say]“Anyway… there’s no need to make up some story. What you actually did… it was more than brave. No one’s ever done anything like that for me. No one. You did well, Theea. I’m the one that messed up.”[/say]
He moved with deliberate care, another stitch, a wince through the dull throb of his arm, teeth gritted through the worst of it. But she wanted to know what he did when he wasn’t working, when he wasn’t surviving day to day. Normally, he would have deflected or kept it short. Not now. Not here.
[say]“When I’m not working… I mostly wander,”[/say] he said, voice low, almost wary of revealing too much. [say]“Hunt. Fish. Watch the reindeer move across the tundra. Sometimes I just sit and let the world pass… count the stars at night. I read too, when I can—old books, scraps of journals. I... whittle, carve shapes out of scraps of wood.”[/say] He gave a faint shrug, as if it were too boring or ordinary. [say]“Nothing worth telling.”[/say]
His eyes flicked briefly to her, sharp and unguarded for the fraction of a second he allowed himself. [say]“But… sometimes, I feel like there should be more. Something I’m meant to do, something that makes everything I've been through matter. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know if I ever will. But until then… this is enough. Mostly.”[/say]
There was a quiet tension behind the words—the longing for more threaded through his matter-of-fact tone, a shadow of the hope he rarely allowed himself to name. And yet, even in admitting it, he let the hands that guided the needle steady, kept the focus sharp, as if saying the world would wait while he fixed this one small, bleeding part of it.
He cut the thread with his teeth, swabbed the seams with antiseptic, and wrapped his arm tight with clean cloth from the kit. He flexed his fingers, testing. They still had feeling and movement. Good. Only then did he let himself exhale a little deeper.
Sitting back on his heels, he finally looked at her properly. The firelight softened the pallor of her face, caught like copper and gold in her hair where it escaped her hood. The blanket swallowed her shoulders, and for a heartbeat she looked too small against the cave wall. The thought pressed against his chest, but he pushed it aside and checked her bandage again—no new seep. Good.
[say]“Drink some,”[/say] he said, offering the waterskin from his pack. [say]“Small sips.”[/say] He watched her carefully, then took one himself, letting it settle the copper taste before swallowing.
Handing it back, he began hauling some of the rocks from the back of the cave to the entrance, building a small shield against the wind and cold outside. The work was quiet, methodical, like everything else he did—part protection, part ritual, and part keeping the darkness at bay.