If anyone were to blindfold you and ask what that hissing sound was, you'd say 'an angry cat'. Unfortunately, there were no felines in sight. It was John, nearly biting his tongue off as you rubbed a whisky-soaked rag across the wounds slashed across his face from the wolves which had tried to take him for dinner.

"Watch it," he snapped in what outwardly seemed to just be anger as you pressed down a little too hard, but you knew it to be just pain from his injuries being cleaned.

It was a good thing Arthur and Javier found him when they did — otherwise there might not have been much of a man left to fuss over.