First Reply Bumps and Boings in the Night

Vulpesen

Finding Trouble
Vulpesen
Flair 1
Flair 2
Flair 3
📜Character Bio📜
Location: Wytanburgh
Mission: Keep a nasty myth "mythical"
Progression: Not going well....

Vulpesen hated Springjaeks. Not because they were particularly dangerous or murderous; at least, no more than the other creatures that the Vitae Court so often sent him to handle. Rather, this had much more to do with the fact that they were intelligent, cruel, and annoying as hell to deal with. Claws like iron and a supernatural agility that made them hard for the fox tailed fae to keep up with. What's worse, their command of illusions and glamour made them quite capable of blending in with mortal society. If only they would use the blending ability to not secretly become serial killers. Vulpesen's back pressed against the cold stone of a nearby building before he slid down to sit, panting from the exertion of the chase and the work of keeping himself from appearing as human. "Screw... you..." His eyes were starting to show flecks of gold through his illusion and he was thankful that his long hair hid his ears which no doubt flickered occasionally from rounded to pointed. Last thing he needed was to go from hunter to hunted.

Winded as he was, perhaps it wasn't just fae-hating mortals that he needed to fear. Even with his illusions holding, his cloak and light armor were gashed with cuts and scrapes with splatters of blood, much of it being his own. He'd survive the night, but it was very likely that he was done jumping from rooftop to rooftop in the dark while chasing some horned bastard with a penchant for playing with the already short lifespans of humans. He laid his sword on his lap and leaned his head against the wall, his eyes closing briefly to both hide the shuddering illusion and give himself a brief moment of respite. "Just wait till I catch my breath."
 
The night in Wytanburgh did not settle so much as linger, holding warmth in some streets while the alleys bled cold where the light had long since failed to reach. Sound moved strangely through it, muffled one moment and sharp the next, as though the city itself decided what it allowed to be heard. Falauna moved through it without haste, her path shaped less by destination than by habit. The outer edges of towns, the stretches between lanternlight and shadow, were where need tended to reveal itself first. She did not seek trouble, nor did she avoid it. It simply found her.

A shape against stone caught her attention before any sound did, stillness where there should have been movement. She slowed. At a distance, he could have been any man resting after too much drink or too long a day, but something in the way he held himself was wrong. Too controlled in some places, too loose in others. Not rest. Strain.

Her eyes adjusted to the low light, picking out the outline of a blade across his lap, the uneven set of his shoulders, the darkened patches along his cloak where the fabric caught what little light there was and refused to give it back. Blood, not fresh enough to shine, but not old enough to ignore.

She did not call out. Instead, she shifted her approach, angling her path so she would pass near him rather than directly toward him, close enough to confirm what the shadows concealed without forcing proximity. The scent reached her before the details did, iron beneath damp stone and stale air.

Falauna stopped.

For a moment, she simply stood there, studying him with the same quiet, assessing focus she brought to any wound. His posture was strained but not collapsed, his grip on the sword present but not threatening. Not helpless. Not safe.

Her hand moved to her satchel.

She lowered herself slightly, enough to bring her line of sight closer to his level while still keeping a respectful distance. The motion was deliberate, controlled, offering neither suddenness nor assumption. From her satchel she drew a strip of clean cloth, pale even in the dim light, and held it where he could see it, not extended into his space, but visible, offered without demand.

Her other hand lifted only a fraction, palm open, not instructing him to wait but showing that she was waiting, for permission, for acknowledgment, for any sign that he would allow her closer.

She remained still, her gaze steady and unreadable, watching for the smallest shift that would tell her whether she should approach or step back and leave him to whatever had brought him to this wall.

She did not assume. She never did.

Vulpesen
 
A long iron knife slipped from his baldric as her footsteps announced her arrival and his head snapped to focus his attention on her. His expression was far from wild ferocity, but there was certainly an edge in his glare, a preparation for a threat unseen. After a moment of confusion, that threat went away as did the knife. Whoever this woman was, she didn't mean him any harm. That, or the Vitae's trust in humans was wildly misplaced and he was about to die a most gruesome death for sparing them a similar fate. "If you want to help, make it quick." He set his longsword to the side, though the pommel rested against his forearm, a lever incase he needed to raise it quickly. "What did this might not be far."

He didn't ask her name or purpose. Not yet. He simply watched. His eyes peered into the dark, seeing much more than a human should as it scanned for traces of a spring heeled terror among the rooftops. "I just really hope you know what you're doing." He trusted her. Not because he had reason to, but because he didn't really have a choice. His wounds weren't grievous, but they were hampering. A series a of slashes along his left arm and chest, appearing in sets of three to five. Deep furrows of rent flesh and one on his outer right thigh. Nothing vital had been struck as he was skilled enough to avoid such blows, but that didn't mean he hadn't been slowed down. And when one was fighting against creatures who's terror had inspired many a nursemaid tale, one couldn't afford to be slowed down.

Falauna Thorne
 
The shift in him was immediate, so sudden and sharp it felt as though the narrow alley itself tightened around the moment. Steel moved first.

The knife slipped free in one clean, practiced motion, catching what little light the alley offered before settling into his grip with the ease of long familiarity. His head snapped toward her, attention narrowing with a precision that left no room for doubt. The look he gave her was not panic, nor the wild, cornered aggression of a man pushed past reason; it was measured and edged, the expression of someone who had learned to expect danger long before introductions or explanations ever had the chance to form.

Falauna did not flinch.

She remained exactly where she was, posture unchanged, the strip of cloth still held lightly between two fingers as though nothing at all had shifted. Her gaze moved once to the knife, acknowledging it, assessing it, and then returned to his face with the same steady, untroubled calm. She had seen worse reactions from men in far better condition, and nothing in his stance surprised her.

After a single breath, something in him eased. The blade lowered, not fully, not trustingly, but enough to mark a decision made under strain. Good.

When he spoke, urgency threaded through every word, the kind that belonged to someone who had no interest in courtesy and no time for explanation. His speech was quick and practical, shaped by the expectation of nearby danger and the uncertainty about whether she was capable of what she offered. It was, she decided, entirely reasonable.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the longsword he set aside, noting how the pommel remained braced against his forearm, positioned so he could raise it in an instant if the situation demanded it. Even injured, he kept contingencies close at hand, and she approved of that more than she let on.

"You are still speaking," she said quietly, her voice calm and even against the tension that pressed in around them. "That suggests you are not dying yet."

There was no cruelty in the remark, only assessment, delivered with the same matter-of-fact steadiness she applied to everything else.

She stepped closer once he made no move to ward her off, and the wounds revealed themselves properly in the low, uneven light. Slashes crossed the left arm and chest in clustered, uneven lines, the kind left by claws rather than steel. Another wound cut across the outer thigh, deep enough to slow movement and compromise balance if neglected. None were immediately fatal, but all were inconvenient, and all carried the potential to become far worse if ignored.

Her expression did not change, though her gaze sharpened with quiet precision.

Not a tavern quarrel. Not brigands.

She knelt within reach, but not carelessly so, placing her satchel beside her knee with the same deliberate economy that shaped all her movements. Her hands worked by habit and memory, opening the satchel and selecting what she needed by touch more than sight: clean linen, needle, thread, and a small vial of spirits.

"You may curse if it helps," she said, already cutting away the damaged fabric from his sleeve with practiced ease. "But do try not to stab me while doing so."

The old cloth peeled back under her hands. She cleared the blood only enough to see what mattered, her touch firm and efficient, entirely without ceremony. When pressure was required, she applied it without apology; when stitching became necessary, she threaded the needle and began a second time without asking permission, her movements steady and sure.

Now and then her eyes lifted, not to his face, but to the rooftops he kept watching, the places where his attention drifted whenever he wasn't forcing it back to her. She noticed that too. Whatever had done this, he believed it might return. So she worked faster, not hurried, but fast, with the kind of controlled urgency that left no motion wasted. The distinction mattered.

"If it comes back before I finish," she said as she tied off the first line of stitches, her tone as even as ever, "I will be annoyed."
 
"Oh, I'm well aware I'm not done in quite yet." A small smile curled on his lips, even as his eyes continued to dart to and fro in the darkness. His grip on the hilt tightened and relaxed, testing the balance of the weapon at his side. Her administrations drew a grunt from him and he lurched slightly as she started her work. "Much appreciated. I'll make sure to keep my tip pointed elsewhere," he said in response to her conditions. The offer to curse was readily taken as a swear slipped from his lips, his brow furrowing though he worked not to screw his eyes shut.

"If it comes before you finish, I will be pissed." He adjusted and lifted himself to give her a better angle to stitch his wounds, a low growl emanating in his throat. Try as he might, some concentrations were hard to hold when someone was poking and prodding at your tender bits. He angled his head to cover his ears with his hair, but his eyes seemed to flicker in the darkness, switching rapidly from dark rings of brown and green to a brilliant gold. Behind him, an occasional shadow could be seen, lashing against the wall as his tail seemed to hop in and out of existence. "And who have I to thank for this timely medical intervention?" he asked, partly to keep himself from letting out other decidedly non-human sounds. However, he was genuinely curious and it was nice to see the non-murderous side of humans, even if she wasn't aware that he was anything but.

Falauna Thorne
 
"You may be as angry as you like," Falauna said calmly, guiding the needle through torn flesh with steady precision. "It will not improve your timing."

There was no edge to the remark, only the dry matter‑of‑factness of someone whose attention was fixed elsewhere. Her focus remained on the wound beneath her hands, on depth and angle and tension, on the amount of blood he had already lost compared to what he could afford to lose. Conversation was secondary. Pain complaints even more so.

When he shifted to give her a better angle, she accepted it without comment, one hand bracing lightly against his side to steady him while the other continued its work. Efficient stitches, clean spacing, nothing ornamental. Her touch was firm enough to hold, careful enough not to waste movement.

The grunt and swallowed curses earned no reaction beyond the faint narrowing of her eyes.

"That one was deserved," she said quietly. "Try not to move during the next two."

A low sound came from him then, something between restraint and irritation. She took it for pain and nothing more.

Her attention did not rise to his face. If his eyes changed in the darkness, she did not see it. If something strange flickered at the edge of him, she gave it no more than a brief glance. Only a shifting shadow on the wall, cast oddly by poor light and a restless body.

Still, some small part of her mind marked it. Strange. But not presently important.

She tied off another stitch, trimmed the thread with a small knife, and moved to the next tear along his arm. Her movements remained steady, unhurried, shaped by training that valued accuracy over speed.

"You may thank me by keeping pressure on this when I tell you," she said, folding a strip of linen and pressing it into his palm. Her hand guided his without hesitation, positioning it over the worst of the bleeding. "Firmly. If you faint after making me work this much, I will think less of you."

Her eyes flicked once more toward the wall where that uncertain shadow moved, not with fear but with the cool assessment of someone who cataloged anomalies only when they became relevant.

Then she returned to the wound, her focus narrowing again until the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the next stitch and the work still ahead of her. Not pausing as she stitched when he asked her name, she provided it. "Falauna." No surname, and no other way for him to identify her.

Vulpesen
 
He nodded to her order and bit back another growl as he pressed the bandage onto wound. Spots danced in his eyes and his lungs filled with a sharp gasp. Still, he knew that it wasn't nearly as bad as it could be. Afterall, he was still breathing enough to take that gasp and his eyes were still open enough to see those spots. It was simply the pain of putting pressure on a wound. While he was not a medic himself, he knew enough of the trade to be aware of what she was doing.

"Stay conscious. Understood." He worked to steady his breathing, his body shifting to find a more comfortable, upright position. "Vulpesen. A pleasure to meet you, miss Falauna." Even pained and bleeding as he was, there was no need to be impolite, especially given the kindness she had so charitably offered him. "Don't worry yourself with being gentle to cautious. I'd rather a quick job than a perfect one.'

Falauna Thorne
 
"Good," Falauna said when he steadied himself, the single word carrying quiet approval rather than praise.

Her hands never paused. Needle, thread, another clean stitch drawing torn flesh together with practiced certainty. She worked as she always did—composed, efficient, unmoved by blood, discomfort, or the narrow alley pressing close around them.

"Staying conscious is an excellent beginning. Continue with it." The dryness in her tone was subtle, easy to miss.

"Vulpesen," she repeated once, not questioning it, only placing it properly in memory. Unfamiliar, but that mattered less than the bleeding in front of her. Questions could wait until answers were not needed to keep him upright.

"A pleasure may be overstating the circumstances," she said as she tied off another stitch, "but I will accept the courtesy."

At his comment about gentleness, one brow lifted. "You assume I was considering either gentle or perfect." The pressure she applied next was firm and deliberate: never cruel, simply exact. "I am aiming for effective."

She shifted to inspect the slashes across his chest, dampening fresh linen with spirits. The sharp scent rose between them. "This will sting." She warned him only as she pressed the cloth to torn skin, her gaze flicking briefly to his face: checking color, focus, breath. Still conscious. Still coherent. Good.

"You know enough to follow instructions," she said. "That places you above many men I have treated."

Another glance toward the wall where that strange shadow moved against the stone. Marked. Set aside. Later. "If you intend to remain upright," she continued, returning to her work, "avoid heroics for at least an hour. Preferably longer. I expect you will ignore that, but I am giving the advice regardless."
 
"The meeting is a pleasure. The circumstances are not," he said, grinning through the pain. Further comments were cut off as he bit back a yelp, strangling the high pitched sound deep in the back of his throat as the spirits touched against his chest. That scent that he usually found comfort and pleasure in was suddenly nauseating as it radiated like fire from his chest. His fingers tightened on his sword and he busied himself with glaring into the darkness. So far, their luck was holding out. But the springjaek knew he was on its tail. Worse, it knew he was injured. Luck would not last forever.

"Less heroics and more just doing a job; A job that I haven't completed yet. Likely that same sentiment is what makes those other men vex you." He offered an apologetic grimace, though he made no move to escape her ministrations. Even if he couldn't follow the medics orders, he could at least try to make her present job as easy as possible. Fae magic would go a far way in healing his wounds later on. But for now, he had to make due. "If its any consolation, I plan to spend some time laid up in the inn with a drink after I've finished with my duties."

Falauna Thorne
 
"The distinction is fair," Falauna said, her tone as even as ever. "I will amend my judgment. The meeting is tolerable. The circumstances remain poor."

If she noticed the grin through pain, she gave no outward sign of it. Her attention remained where it belonged, on torn skin, thread tension, and whether the bleeding had slowed enough to allow cleaner closure. Still, some small part of her registered that he joked while injured.

Useful trait. Sometimes foolish. Often both.

When the spirits drew that strangled sound from him, she did not apologize. Nor did she linger. "The bottle is less kind than I am," she said quietly. "You may direct your resentment toward it."

Her hands continued their work with brisk precision, stitching one tear closed before moving to the next. He was making an effort not to hinder her, which placed him above a surprising number of patients.

At his talk of unfinished duty, her gaze lifted briefly to him, then followed the line of his stare into the darkened alley beyond. Whatever hunted him, or was hunted by him, remained absent for the moment.

"Duty is often the name people give the thing they refuse to put down," she said after a beat. "Sometimes honorably. Sometimes stupidly." There was no accusation in it. Only observation.

She knelt back slightly to inspect the line of stitches across his chest, then pressed fresh linen into place and began binding it firm enough to hold without restricting breath. "You do strike me as the vexing sort," she added. "Competent enough to survive trouble. Determined enough to walk back into it before the bandages settle." The cloth was wrapped once more around his torso, then secured with a final pull.

At the mention of an inn and drink, the faintest trace of dry amusement touched her expression before vanishing. "If you complete these duties and still possess the strength to lift a cup, I recommend two things." She reached for the wound at his thigh next, eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed it. "Sit before the first drink." A pause. "And choose a chair sturdier than your judgment."

Without waiting for a reply, she glanced once more toward the restless dark. "If your work must continue tonight," she said, voice lower now, practical rather than sharp, "then tell me what I should watch for."

Vulpesen
 
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