Bard
CLIPCLOP COCONUT
~Kodiak, Old Farmhouse~
Like a dog ordered to sit for a treat, Kodiak would obey, but not before rolling up the rug and taking his place on the redwood flood. It would be easier to clean blood off the floor than the couch or the woolen rug. He grit his fangs together inside his mouth as Blondie McSparkletits went digging into his manflesh with the tweezers from the medical kit, pulling out what bits of metal that remained in his battered body. Thankfully, the majority of it had exited his body upon shifting forms back in the woods.
The claws-for-fingernails on either hand slightly raked at the floor, his little way of distracting himself from the brutalizing pain. Most men or women could go with a dab of anesthetic or a few shots of whiskey, but he had to make do with what was available. When she stopped playing Invasive Surgery with Doctor Sparkles, cleaning and dressing the wound, he would push her hand from his face and drag himself to his feet.
"I was shot. You saw what happened." Kodiak turned and disappeared into the second archway again. At the end of the hall, he would open the third door and enter. Inside would be his small room, simple and rather unadorned. The far corner had a writing desk stuffed in it and there was a queen-size bed made with what looked like homespun quilts for blankets creased and folded OCD-neatly. There was a wardrobe next to the window and he would pull it open, revealing several sets of the same clothes: flannel shirts of varying colors on wire mesh hangers and several pairs of jeans folded neatly in 3-high stacks. He grabbed one of each, dressing meticulously slow to avoid aggravating his wound after pulling the tattered remains of his last set from his body and tossing them in the nearby trash bin, filled with similar instances of ruined clothing.
Secretly, he hoped they were quiet enough coming in that he hadn't disturbed Jaclyn's rest. The daytime wasn't her preferred operating hour, so when the day was young and he had nothing to do, he'd watch some of the propaganda on the old television or go out and till his garden. He left the ends of the shirt untucked as he buttoned up with practiced ease and rolled up the sleeves just past his elbow. A mirror hung on the inside of the wardrobe and he examined his world-weary expression. With some rest, color would return to his face, and he would have to rely on his charge to hunt if the wound didn't heal fast enough.
Adjusting the collar on his red flannel. he shut the wardrobe up and left the room, closing the door quietly and coming back into the living room where he expected to find the woman still waiting, likely with more questions. He realized he hadn't thanked her yet for her assistance; Gods knew he was incapable of doing anything medical related, let alone self-treatment with his only other option a frail blind girl.
So he settled for short and sweet. "... Thanks." He'd rasp quietly. If she hadn't guessed by now, Kodiak wasn't much for talking, so getting what little she did out of him was a rarity.
Like a dog ordered to sit for a treat, Kodiak would obey, but not before rolling up the rug and taking his place on the redwood flood. It would be easier to clean blood off the floor than the couch or the woolen rug. He grit his fangs together inside his mouth as Blondie McSparkletits went digging into his manflesh with the tweezers from the medical kit, pulling out what bits of metal that remained in his battered body. Thankfully, the majority of it had exited his body upon shifting forms back in the woods.
The claws-for-fingernails on either hand slightly raked at the floor, his little way of distracting himself from the brutalizing pain. Most men or women could go with a dab of anesthetic or a few shots of whiskey, but he had to make do with what was available. When she stopped playing Invasive Surgery with Doctor Sparkles, cleaning and dressing the wound, he would push her hand from his face and drag himself to his feet.
"I was shot. You saw what happened." Kodiak turned and disappeared into the second archway again. At the end of the hall, he would open the third door and enter. Inside would be his small room, simple and rather unadorned. The far corner had a writing desk stuffed in it and there was a queen-size bed made with what looked like homespun quilts for blankets creased and folded OCD-neatly. There was a wardrobe next to the window and he would pull it open, revealing several sets of the same clothes: flannel shirts of varying colors on wire mesh hangers and several pairs of jeans folded neatly in 3-high stacks. He grabbed one of each, dressing meticulously slow to avoid aggravating his wound after pulling the tattered remains of his last set from his body and tossing them in the nearby trash bin, filled with similar instances of ruined clothing.
Secretly, he hoped they were quiet enough coming in that he hadn't disturbed Jaclyn's rest. The daytime wasn't her preferred operating hour, so when the day was young and he had nothing to do, he'd watch some of the propaganda on the old television or go out and till his garden. He left the ends of the shirt untucked as he buttoned up with practiced ease and rolled up the sleeves just past his elbow. A mirror hung on the inside of the wardrobe and he examined his world-weary expression. With some rest, color would return to his face, and he would have to rely on his charge to hunt if the wound didn't heal fast enough.
Adjusting the collar on his red flannel. he shut the wardrobe up and left the room, closing the door quietly and coming back into the living room where he expected to find the woman still waiting, likely with more questions. He realized he hadn't thanked her yet for her assistance; Gods knew he was incapable of doing anything medical related, let alone self-treatment with his only other option a frail blind girl.
So he settled for short and sweet. "... Thanks." He'd rasp quietly. If she hadn't guessed by now, Kodiak wasn't much for talking, so getting what little she did out of him was a rarity.
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