TIDES ARE TURNING [P] Aug 25, 2013 18:36:17 GMT -5
Post by Riley Salvatici on Aug 25, 2013 18:36:17 GMT -5
It all started when she drew the short straw that morning, landing her with the joyous lot of ‘Fulsi escort’ for the day. She had been at the meeting point at the edge of the park, taking cover from a summer shower under a massive, gnarled oak, when the Carna patrol found her.
Four to one, they weren’t the worst odds Riley had seen. They thought she’d be easy prey, female and alone. She took satisfaction in correcting their misconceptions.
There was a price to pay, of course.
Teeth grit against the pain, she stumbled out into the light rain, leaving the bodies strewn under the oak, bright red marring the vibrant green. The colors quickly disappeared, muted behind the misty gray curtain. The rain wasn’t falling hard enough to penetrate the oak’s canopy, but with luck, it would wash away the blood trail she was leaving.
Swearing steadily in Polish under her breath, she leaned on her staff as she wound her was through brush and trees. Her head was spinning, and she was keenly aware of the fact that she needed to stop the bleeding.
The rusted chain on the door of the gardener’s shed had been broken long ago. Now it was an easy matter to shoulder the door open and slip inside, leaving a smear of scarlet on the chipped paint. It had been cleared out of anything useful, but it was shelter from the rain and prying eyes.
Her bag dropped carelessly to the ground, and Riley put a hand to the wall before she ended up on her knees beside it. Eyes adjusting to the weak light filtering through dirty windows, she took stock. Dog bite on her left calf, stab wound in her wrenched left shoulder, laceration on right hand - note to self, don’t grab blades - claw marks on right thigh and ribs, and curving over the tops of her shoulders and the small of her back. Plus a variety of abrasions, bruises, and a split lip.
Drawing in a deliberate breath through her nose, she gingerly slid off her looser shirt and set it aside. The tank-top wasn’t coming off anytime soon, not with her shoulder as it was, so she carefully peeled up the hem and slid down the straps to bare the injuries. It would be best to simply undo them, but she didn’t think she could reach back at that angle. Boots were next, so she carefully lowered herself to sit on an overturned bucket - riddled with holes, which explained while it was still here. Even so, she nearly blacked out, leaning over to reach the laces.
“This is why I don’t typically wear skinny jeans on jobs,” she remarked tightly, trying to roll up the left pant-leg without dragging it over the wounds. When she finally bared the bite, her breathing was ragged and stars danced before her eyes. Getting access to the gashes on her right thigh would be a challenge - it might be best to bind them over the denim and deal with it when she got home. One thing at a time, she reminded herself.
Pulling her pack over, she unzipped it and dug around inside. Unscrewing her water bottle, she poured some over her hands and her leg, then pulled a roll of gauze out of her first aid kit. With that and the water, she set about wiping away the worst of the blood, taking note of which wounds still bled sluggishly. Her calf and her stabbed shoulder, she determined, needed to be seen to first.