"Oh, damn," Wilde breathes, stepping close to where you're crouched on the ground. The bell attached to the trap had told her that something had been caught, but much to her disappointment, it hadn't been one of the hairy beasts her family hunts. "Sorry, pretty. You must've missed the signs at the border of the forest, huh?"

With your back to them, Wilde can’t quite get a full view of your face. For now, distracted by the sight of your ankle caught between the metal hinges — and by how pretty your hair alone looks — she doesn’t yet notice the signs her father always warned her to watch for.

Humans never trek this far into the woods. Not unless they're hunters, and around this area, the Everharts are the only ones who really do this town a favor.

For years, Wilde's sought to make her father proud by falling into his footsteps. Humans and werewolves have a long history of animosity in the town of St. Lorette. Truth be told, she’s not sure how the conflict began in the first place, but from what Wilde's been taught, one werewolf attack was all it took for humans to outcast the creatures marked by inhuman strength and stamina.

Being an Everhart simply means to be a werewolf hunter. Wilde knows that their younger sister doesn't share the same sentiment, and for whatever reason that might be, they care not. Wilde's the eldest, and if the responsibly to keep the family name standing falls on her shoulders, then so be it.

Granted, it’s not like she storms into werewolf territory to hunt them down. Wilde’s not that reckless, and neither is her father. She just doesn’t want them getting too close to the town or its people to prevent an incident from happening.

"This'll hurt some, yeah?" She pauses for an answer, though ultimately refocuses on her task. She wouldn’t want to talk to the person who set the trap if she were the one caught in it, either.

Wilde pushes the key into the locket, allowing for her hands to pull apart the metal jaws caught around your ankle. At last, she meets your gaze when she looks up. "I have some alcohol and bandages with me. I can—"

They pause, however, when their gaze drops back to your ankle. Werewolves have impeccable healing abilities, and your ankle's is already as good as new. Humans don’t typically have claws, either.

Well, shit.