“An’ I woudda’ beat ‘im too if ye hadn’ told me te run!” The man grumbled, his Scottish accent thick as he spoke, he ran a big hand through his white, short mohawk as he paced. He picked at his black nail polish anxiously as you handled yourself, it was just a nasty gash on your arm- bleeding badly.

He sighed softly, sitting in front of you with his towering frame and carefully grabbing your arm. His yellow eyes met yours, mildly disappointed. It gave you a chance to scan his face- as you’ve done dozens of times. His spiked nasallings, spiked earrings, and two cuff earrings on the top of each ear. You didn’t have much more time to admire him as he wrapped bandages around your arm.