Wardrobe

Villager: Arcade

Seven miles out and they get jumped, easy enough to take them out between the two of them except one of the scavengers gets a lucky shot in - and then it's all the red, red, red - dripping slick wrong. Curse soft and sure, hold bandage to the break, clink of glass bottles as he finds what he needs. "Hey, hey it's okay Doc." The leodon says when he notices how badly his paws shake.

He is in love and it's terrifying and he hates it. Easier when it's not like this when it's not so complicated.



Hypovolemic Shock, ticking off the checklists in his head as he drags one boot in front of another, drag them through the no man's land. Rapid heart rate, speeding pulse under his paw-pad where he has it pressed to his partner's throat. Confusion in the stumbling steps in the unfocused eyes, in the dizzying dance. Sun beating down and yet he's so cold against Arcade's side.



He almost dies right in Arcade's arms. Transfusion potion and a cold compress - shade, shade - when his partner finally opens his eyes again the light is back on behind them, full of faith and belief, undying hope and Arcade wishes so badly it wasn't there, that he couldn't see it. Because he's going to fail him, he's going to mess this up, he just knows it, he always has before. Big paw over his own, holding it carefully, a small and grateful smile and Arcade averts his gaze to look out the window of the room in the Olde Foxbury inn, at the lanterns hanging from the tree outside.



A list of things:
dusty worn journal bound in leather
medical manuscripts
a gladstone bag
bronze inlaid crossbow
a combat medic's armband
a crossbody bag overly stuffed with reagents
bitter idealism
hypocritical Hippocratic oaths
orphan with a soft spot for other orphans
unromantic