48cats
Dewey shook his head slowly, his dark eyes tired. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, and his eyes swept the room wearily as he watched Lanna tend to his ankle. It was twisted violently to the side, splinters of bone sticking out in a disarrayed manner and blood covering the floorboards. The arrow that had caused him, to fall still stuck out of his shoulder, sharp and prevalent.
"Hurts," The man whimpered, dropping his chin to his chest. He had a thick, German accent, and preferred not to speak on most occasions. He stared hollowly at his ankle, his feathery black hair sticking in wet clumps to his forehead.
Lanna nodded, her grey eyes patient. "I know, Dewbird. But it's something you have to deal with." She murmured, her fingers deft as she wrapped the wound.
It was the final bout of the snowstorm that was going to end up killing them. They'd survived the first waves of the freezing whirlwind of white fury, had survived the icy sheets of snow slipping through the cracks in their walls and chilling their bodies, and had survived the tearing wind.
But this snow, that would fall slow and thick like a lazy monster, would trap them, and choke them. This snow that would come slowly, easily, would be what locked them inside the cabin, and the escaping convicts would have no hope for help coming.
Because nobody would know that they were there.