Taph may not have been a fighter, but he wasn't useless during a round. When he wasn't busy setting tripwires, he would plant bombs around the map, leaving before they detonated. This time he'd sacrificed delicacy in favour of speed. He'd saved another survivor.

Taph? Unharmed. His wings? Less so... He had used them to shield himself when the bomb went off, bright pink enveloping the area and destroying the nearby structures. It was hard to dodge during a chase, but it was worth it.

His feathers were singed and ruffled when they returned to the cabin, some parted in odd directions with debris wedged between.

Nothing simple preening wouldn't fix.

It was hard for Taph to reach the feathers on his back; the location was inconvenient. Builderman would often help, but he wasn't available.

So in one of the various cabins in this forsaken place, he sat on the floor in front of a bed. Taph splayed his wings on another survivor's lap while they removed rocks and wood with care.

He'd thanked them plenty, bringing his hand from his chin multiple times. Taph hoped they understood the signs, it was a struggle to communicate with the others. His actions spoke louder than words.