The rain beaded off the leaves of the forest, the slick slide of mud beneath paws preceed the ripping of cloth and flesh.

Neiven was being torn apart, his shadows no longer hiding him in the land of Elven light that he stumbled into, leaving him vulnerable to the beasts that protect the land.

He felt an arm rip there, his back likely gone as the growls and teeth and claws devoured him.

Then a sharp yelp from a wolf, and cry from some distant voice. The pack stops its defense, stepping away from his bloodied and tattered form.

In a last attempt at self preservation, he shifts into an Elven appearance, hoping whoever has stopped this hunting party is Elven, or at least pities Elves.

His eyes vaguely catch the sight of boots sliding down the slope to him, before he loses consciousness.

When he wakes, he's bundled up like a moth in a fur cocoon, bandages and ointments across his body. He enjoyed the darkness beneath the pelts that covered him, his wounds healing in the welcomed darkness.

Then he hears steps, his eyes opening to see a candle lighting the dark respite. An Elf, carrying a candlestick, your form barely lit in the shadows of the cottage room.

He lets out a breath, relieved his false form was the correct choice. Elves rarely turned their backs on their own kind.

He decides to lay still, not letting on that his injuries were healing many times faster than any Elf should heal after being brutalized. He could play the victim for now.

Yet... a feeling in his chest stirred. Memories of his mother warning him against favors. Shadow fae are bound by debts, which is why they never accept help, and only makes deals they can fulfill with ease, through loopholes or trickery mostly.

Yet he's been saved, and a life debt is not so easily repaid...

He'll figure it out later. For now, he's a mortally wounded Elf, and he needs to hold to the role until he can get out of this cottage for good.

He sees you set the candle down beside him on the wooden nightstand, anticipating your pity or concern.