((OOC Note:Â *Takes another turn*Â I hope its okay! ^^)
A dark shadow crossed over the Wailer's features as he watched S'imba struggle with the deeply-embedded arrow that viciously protruded from his leg. The arrow, unlike the one used to slay the carriage driver, was closer in size to that of a standard one used by people. It's precisely crafted tip was uncommonly thin but greater in length so that that wound caused was still more damaging than was typical of a standard arrow, while not being so large as to risk shattering the bone entirely. Yes, this was an arrow made explicitly for maiming, just like S'imba had been. It's sharpened head was thinly coated with a dark layer of crimson that streaked neatly across it's curvature, leaving only a few slivers of exposed steel to glow dimly in the fading light that was quickly receding behind the encroaching shadow of storm clouds above. A thin and dark trail sourcing from the arrow head laced back along the arrow's elongated, wooden shaft in narrow meanders to disappear into S'imba's blood-soaked flesh before reappearing once again on the far side, extending out a fair distance and stopping shortly before where the fletchlings sleekly, sloped into the arrow.
The wound was truly horrendous to behold, even after having being apparently tended to prior to his arrival here, possibly by the Ixali themselves, Wilkin thought. But the pain... the pain that it must have sanctioned upon the male seemed hardly imaginable, even before S'imba rashly proceeded to draw it out of himself with a mighty tug. A short requiem composed from the horrific melody of gore and impending torment rang through the air as the arrow's entire length was reluctantly released from it's fleshy prison, tossing the miqo'te into a ravaging pit of anguish as he was left rolling across the water-logged soil weakly as agonized wails hoarsely poured from this throat while his nerves and receptors fired wildly and angrily in protest against his actions.
Seeing someone, anyone, being reduced to such a state was always such a painful sight to Wilkin - even considering that it was not something unfamiliar to the weathered fighter. Many a times he had to play the part of the bearer of terrible news, to confront worried mothers and young widows whom, until moments prior, thought that their sons and husbands still yet walked tall, alive and even well.
Unfortunately, in these troubled times it was not a duty that was seldom stumbled upon and, to an extent, one does eventually harden to the tragedy and cruelty that the world has to offer it's inhabitants, but no-one ever becomes totally immune; especially not this particular highlander of whom was uncommonly, tender-hearted in nature.
His chapped lips parted as he struggled to force out a dry voice, painful though it would have been, to somehow encourage the male.
"A chance will present itself" he wanted to say. "Remain strong for when the moment comes"; but somehow, those words felt shallow as he watched the miqo'te writhe in pain from the horrendous wound that tortured his senses and likely drove his mind to the brink of collapse.
The Wailer could only take his glance away from him. He could not escape the young male's pained cries and whimpers, but directly watching yet another soul fall prey to the demonic poison that was hopelessness was something which he felt that he was losing the ability to endure.
Even he, a man once regarded for his humble optimism, would have long since embraced the opportunity of death.
A dark shadow crossed over the Wailer's features as he watched S'imba struggle with the deeply-embedded arrow that viciously protruded from his leg. The arrow, unlike the one used to slay the carriage driver, was closer in size to that of a standard one used by people. It's precisely crafted tip was uncommonly thin but greater in length so that that wound caused was still more damaging than was typical of a standard arrow, while not being so large as to risk shattering the bone entirely. Yes, this was an arrow made explicitly for maiming, just like S'imba had been. It's sharpened head was thinly coated with a dark layer of crimson that streaked neatly across it's curvature, leaving only a few slivers of exposed steel to glow dimly in the fading light that was quickly receding behind the encroaching shadow of storm clouds above. A thin and dark trail sourcing from the arrow head laced back along the arrow's elongated, wooden shaft in narrow meanders to disappear into S'imba's blood-soaked flesh before reappearing once again on the far side, extending out a fair distance and stopping shortly before where the fletchlings sleekly, sloped into the arrow.
The wound was truly horrendous to behold, even after having being apparently tended to prior to his arrival here, possibly by the Ixali themselves, Wilkin thought. But the pain... the pain that it must have sanctioned upon the male seemed hardly imaginable, even before S'imba rashly proceeded to draw it out of himself with a mighty tug. A short requiem composed from the horrific melody of gore and impending torment rang through the air as the arrow's entire length was reluctantly released from it's fleshy prison, tossing the miqo'te into a ravaging pit of anguish as he was left rolling across the water-logged soil weakly as agonized wails hoarsely poured from this throat while his nerves and receptors fired wildly and angrily in protest against his actions.
Seeing someone, anyone, being reduced to such a state was always such a painful sight to Wilkin - even considering that it was not something unfamiliar to the weathered fighter. Many a times he had to play the part of the bearer of terrible news, to confront worried mothers and young widows whom, until moments prior, thought that their sons and husbands still yet walked tall, alive and even well.
Unfortunately, in these troubled times it was not a duty that was seldom stumbled upon and, to an extent, one does eventually harden to the tragedy and cruelty that the world has to offer it's inhabitants, but no-one ever becomes totally immune; especially not this particular highlander of whom was uncommonly, tender-hearted in nature.
His chapped lips parted as he struggled to force out a dry voice, painful though it would have been, to somehow encourage the male.
"A chance will present itself" he wanted to say. "Remain strong for when the moment comes"; but somehow, those words felt shallow as he watched the miqo'te writhe in pain from the horrendous wound that tortured his senses and likely drove his mind to the brink of collapse.
The Wailer could only take his glance away from him. He could not escape the young male's pained cries and whimpers, but directly watching yet another soul fall prey to the demonic poison that was hopelessness was something which he felt that he was losing the ability to endure.
Even he, a man once regarded for his humble optimism, would have long since embraced the opportunity of death.
![[Image: ecec20e41f.png]](https://puu.sh/xvMxb/ecec20e41f.png)
Characters: Andre Winter (Hy'ur) / K'nahli Yohko (Miqo'te)
