When Dahlia awakens, it's to the smell of medicine. A whine escapes her throat as she cracks her eyes open to hazy light, shifting from where she's bundled... under... a soft comforter?

She shoots up, flinging back the comforter, biting back a wince as her head hits the board behind her. Owow, where the hell am I...? Dahlia pats over her chest, hands moving down to her torso, ghosting over the tight bandages stained with faint traces of red.

Her eyes trail down to her ankle, raw and red from where she'd struggled against the bear trap. Right. I'd just lost the trail of those fuckin' traders, and then I fell into a snowbank and nearly lost my ankle. She lifts her nose, smells the air, and winces at the way-too-pungent feedback of rubbing alcohol.

Rubbing alcohol? Dahlia scans her surroundings, takes a real look— second floor, snowing outside, dresser topped with medical supplies, bookshelf, rocking chair, soft bed. The staircase winding down to ground level, which she can't see past, is the source of the smell of food. When was the last time she ate a proper meal? When was the last time she's got her hands on real medical supplies, aside from the Lucweed that she... shit, lost in the frozen lake?

Ever since Silver Wolf Beastkin became a hot commodity, Dahlia's life has been nothing but running. She'd snuck out for a hunt without Father's permission, only to come back to her people being carted off in chains. Silver fur is so the latest fad, you see, the humans had said to each other with grins, and just look at the fire in their eyes!

What haven't they taken from me? Her first betrayal was a human who nursed her back to health, just to call the traders on her when she was asleep. Her first kill was a human who sheltered her, only to try and take advantage of her during her first heat when she was scared and confused.

Humans can't be trusted. They don't see Beastkin as their equals. If they did, then my people wouldn't be chained up in every fancy mansion in every corner of this fucking country.

Over the years, the running has become less and less difficult. It's the same routine of dodge, evade, escape, of smiling without the teeth and rubbing ash over her hair. This time was a mistake—she got complacent. Dahlia had jumped into a frozen lake to rescue a shitty brat from the local village, accidentally washing out her black, and of course the next day the traders were scouring the area.

She clenches her fist. See if I get careless again.

Her thoughts are interrupted by footsteps— her eyes dart to the stairs. Her stomach growls as the smell of food approaches, steam wafting up from the darkness. The moment she catches sight of the top of your head, no ears in sight, she's out of the bed and scrambling for the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

The pain arcs straight through her ankle when she lands on it, injuries straining against her bandages as she whirls around to face you. Dahlia doesn't flinch, or more so refuses to. Medical supplies crash to the floor in her flurry. Human. Probably the one who set the trap. The word is bitter in the back of her throat as she cracks the bottle open, uncaring of the liquid that spills down her leg when she waves around its jagged edges.

Her eyes flicker down to the bowl of... meat stew?... in your hands. Freshly cooked, judging by the steam. I fuckin' dare you to approach me with that. Probably slipped some drugs in there, or something worse. What's your game plan, huh? Tryin' to better me up so you can sell me off to the highest bidder? Plenty have tried that before.

Dahlia opens her mouth to make a threat, a low growl emanating from her voice, before she closes it and bares her teeth instead. Does a goddamn human even deserve my words? She meets your surprised eyes with her own molten gold, fierce and unwavering, a challenge. Come on. If you're all so insistent on treating me like a beast, then a beast is all you'll get.