[Fool. He thinks the word alone in isolation, letting it knot itself somewhere in the forefront of his mind— but there’s a catching snarl that rises in his own throat in unison, even as he lunges hard and harsh into that tangle of shadows and tattered limbs: twin blades cutting in a flurrying half-circle about the man left prone and bloodied across cold streets.
In someone else there might be mercy. Pity for such a sight, even as their pursuers scatter (however briefly).
In Gabranth, there's only anger, and it makes itself known when he snaps:]
You risk yourself for naught, you tempt death and detraction and for what— ?
[Thankfully the herd has thinned enough that the whirlwind of swords further dissuades them--limping, hissing, they stagger back and away. They are safe, at least for the time being.
Wujiu hisses in breath through his teeth, one hand holding the umbrella close, the other fist pushing himself up from the ground, his flayed-open back stretching painfully. For what? For everything.]
I'm...fine. You can...go. [Gritted out as he tries to deal with pain that he hasn't felt this acutely in a while. Where was the flesh stitching together, wounds melting off...? He feels cold.]
Spare me. I’ve not the stomach nor the temperament to endure lies at present.
[With a glance towards his side he evaluates one of the nearest buildings, all open windows and the half-gated entryway that might serve as sufficient barrier should their pursuers return.]
Inside.
[It’s a murmured command this time. Hardly toothless, but there’s no sign of cutting claw or anger present— helm pulled from his head in dark, secure spaces.]
[He has to be halfway dragged in, because even though he knows, deep down in the way that an animal knows, that his body is only a step away from giving out...his heart refuses to accept it.
He immediately turns to go back in the way they came, and then...falls flat on his ass, his legs having given up entirely.
Wujiu has to take a few breaths, to try to calm his whirling mind, that need to go, go--
All he manages to do is turn his burning, torn back towards the man, umbrella still held tightly. He doesn't even want to let it go enough to undo his robes, but it's acquiescence to his demand.]
[Frustration still brims full within the cup of his sanity, but he tamps down on it with effort as he moves nearer (he is not the man he once was, that much remains true), reaching to set hands across those narrow shoulders.
He cannot feel how cold they must be through the thickness of his gloves.]
[He still gets a light, frustrated growl, echoing the edge in the armored man's voice with his own, but--
Without Bi'an to warn him (Hold, Wujiu) it's his instincts that finally assert themselves. Despite everything, Wujiu still has his self-preservation, and he finally stops holding it down.
And if the man says he can treat him? All the better.
He doesn't say anything, but he does loosen his grip on the umbrella just enough--just enough to wordlessly unfasten his outer robe, letting it drop. The shirt comes next, sticky with black blood. He knows enough about medicine to know it wouldn't do to have the clothes in the way.
So what his companion gets now is a full view of that emaciated back, the spine rising from marked skin like some sort of leviathan in a stormy sea.]
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In someone else there might be mercy. Pity for such a sight, even as their pursuers scatter (however briefly).
In Gabranth, there's only anger, and it makes itself known when he snaps:]
You risk yourself for naught, you tempt death and detraction and for what— ?
no subject
Wujiu hisses in breath through his teeth, one hand holding the umbrella close, the other fist pushing himself up from the ground, his flayed-open back stretching painfully. For what? For everything.]
I'm...fine. You can...go. [Gritted out as he tries to deal with pain that he hasn't felt this acutely in a while. Where was the flesh stitching together, wounds melting off...? He feels cold.]
no subject
[With a glance towards his side he evaluates one of the nearest buildings, all open windows and the half-gated entryway that might serve as sufficient barrier should their pursuers return.]
Inside.
[It’s a murmured command this time. Hardly toothless, but there’s no sign of cutting claw or anger present— helm pulled from his head in dark, secure spaces.]
And show me your wounds.
no subject
He immediately turns to go back in the way they came, and then...falls flat on his ass, his legs having given up entirely.
Wujiu has to take a few breaths, to try to calm his whirling mind, that need to go, go--
All he manages to do is turn his burning, torn back towards the man, umbrella still held tightly. He doesn't even want to let it go enough to undo his robes, but it's acquiescence to his demand.]
no subject
He cannot feel how cold they must be through the thickness of his gloves.]
Compose yourself. Else I cannot treat you thusly.
no subject
Without Bi'an to warn him (Hold, Wujiu) it's his instincts that finally assert themselves. Despite everything, Wujiu still has his self-preservation, and he finally stops holding it down.
And if the man says he can treat him? All the better.
He doesn't say anything, but he does loosen his grip on the umbrella just enough--just enough to wordlessly unfasten his outer robe, letting it drop. The shirt comes next, sticky with black blood. He knows enough about medicine to know it wouldn't do to have the clothes in the way.
So what his companion gets now is a full view of that emaciated back, the spine rising from marked skin like some sort of leviathan in a stormy sea.]
...There.