His wooden weapon had broken, but the were-dog was not yet incapacitated.

Right now it was glaring at him with weapon drawn, a dagger.

Double-edged blade, between 15 and 20cm, a 10cm handle made of wrapped bone.

It breathed heavily, its chest expanding with every heave of air. Blood spurted out of its snout and its side.  Wooden splinters dotted it scarred face, the one across its left eye being the most prominent.

The two of them glared at each other.

`Scar’ lowered his center of gravity, preparing to attack.

He, on the other hand, relaxed his posture, the remnants of his `weapon´ falling to the ground as he loosened his grip.

As soon as the broken stick touched the ground ...

`Scar’ pounced.

*    *    *

Slashing with the knife, he aimed for the throat.

He felt resistance, and tried to pull back.

Before he knew what was happening, a sudden pressure increased on his wrist and elbow. He was accelerated forward, slowing down abruptly and then forced backwards again, his body involuntarily following the movement of his arm.

Suddenly, a sharp sting shot through his wrist up the length of his arm.

Sudden pressure assaulting his face, twice.

Recognition an instant later.

Fists had struck him, first the brow, then the most sensitive part of the snout.

Eyes tearing, he could no longer keep them open.  

Another increase in pressure. Lower.

His right leg buckled as he heard a strange cracking sound.

Then a loud pop.

Burning agony flooded the nerves around his right knee.

The leg gave way, he was buckling backwards.

He felt a weight on his back, before he was hoisted up, his windpipe suddenly compressed.

Forcing open his left eye, noticed an arm around his throat.

Trying to grab the arm, he found his right hand dangling at an odd angle.

Struggling … panic ... darkness.

Not even a howl escaped.

*    *    *

Ciaráh had never seen someone fight like this.

Never seen a fight like this.

The strange creature blocked Scar’s attacking arm with both of its own, then grabbed his wrist with the long fingers of its right hand, pushing against his elbow with the left forearm.

Suddenly Scar was stumbling forward in a semi-circular motion, before her unexpected protector twisted his wrist, took a half-step sideways, and obscured her vision with its back.

A metal flash shot through the air.

She traced the flying dagger with her eyes as it hit a tree, getting stuck.

Her attention snapped back to the fight, just as her savior withdrew its fist from Scar’s face.

Scar staggered, slumped to the side as a kick to the knee broke his balance.

A crack and a pop then reached her ears.

In one fluid motion her hero moved to the back of the falling Scar and dragged him backwards.

Scar flailed about, trying to free himself, but soon stopped.

As the limp body slid to the ground, the victor suddenly started panting, drawing in big gulps of air.

Her jaw dropped, the gallant warrior that had swooped in and saved her appeared a mere illusion.

As the tension faded, she winced as the wounds on her arms heated up and felt like they were on fire. But she didn’t have time for pain, she needed to find her brother. Check on him.

See if he was still…

Ciaráh looked left and right, searching for her brother.

“Brother?” she called.

“Brother!” she repeated, as she found him lying on the ground.

“... brother?” she whispered, as he did not respond.

She moved to rise, stumbled a few times before managing to stand on shaky legs and made her way to his unmoving form.

The creature snapped its head towards her, then followed her gaze.

*    *    *

With the were-dog having lost consciousness, tension quickly left him.

His lungs screamed for oxygen, as he relaxed his posture.

The fight played out in his mind again.

Slowing down and catching the attack with both arms, then forcing movement with waki gatame, disarming with kote gaeshi, a quick one-two combination to the face, yoko geri to break the balance, as well as the knee, and finally, choking out the aggressor with hadaka jime.

Strange words that did not appear to be his native language flowed into his mind, their literal meaning unknown, but strangely familiar. The movements came naturally.

Practiced.

Repeatedly.

His train of thought was broken.

“Dheartháir?” a sweet bell-like voice rang out.

“Dheartháir!” the voices repeated with urgency.

“... dheartháir?” a small whimper.

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His attention focused on the girl, then followed her gaze and before resting on a small immobile shape.

The girl was making her way towards the little  cub on unsteady legs.

Moving quickly, he arrived at the motionless body moments before her, scanning the humanoid cub for obvious signs of injury and checking his breathing.

Fear evident on the her face, the girl started sniveling, repeating the word `dheartháir´, carefully shaking the small cub.

He placed his hands on her shoulder gingerly, then gently pushed her out of the way.

First he had to check the vitals.

The cub was lying on its back, unmoving and seemingly not breathing.

Carefully he examined the it using his tactile senses, checking for any broken bones or swellings.

Not feeling any signs of damage, he moved on to check breathing and pulse.

His ear to its chest, looking towards the cub’s face, he listened for a heartbeat.

The heart was beating steadily, if a little fast. What was the correct pulse for a furry?

Its chest was rising rhythmically, albeit slowly, as the cub drew in air.

Everything seemed to be in order, so all he needed to do was to keep the little one warm.

He took off his coat and wrapped the little cub in it, before gently placing the bundle on the ground.

Satisfied that the cub was only resting, he turned his focus to the girl, sitting on her knees right next to him, looking up with a terrified expression.

He smiled and gave her thumbs up, not sure if she would understand the gesture.

Studying the girl in front him carefully, her relief was evident. As her shoulders dropped low and, after exhaling deeply, her breathing normalized, he noticed the state of her clothes.

Shredded cotton sleeves soaked in blood. Her attire appeared Asian in design.

A simple cotton yukata, but her feet ... paws were not covered in sandals, presumably having no need for them.

“If only I had a first aid kit,” he mumbled.

He heard a little jingle next to him, but after looking left and right, failed to find anything.

A light flashed from his satchel, and remembering his first experience after he woke up, he quickly inspected its contents again.

A green bundle with a drawing of a white cross was nestled between the water bottles.

“I could really use a chicken teriyaki sandwich!” he said, slightly louder.

Nothing happened.

Mentally slapping himself, he opened the first aid pack. Gauze, dressings, bandages as well as antiseptic spray and a small bottle of saline, various small bottles of painkillers he didn’t dare use and a variety of instruments like tweezers and scissors.

He could work with that.

*    *    *

Ciaráh was looking with interest at the strange contraptions her savior pulled out of his bag.

The flash of light was probably some form of magic, although she had never seen the old granny ever use such spells. Mostly roasting herbs, smoke in the air and a few incantations, but never direct mana shaping.

In the stories her sister told her before bedtime, sometimes a magician was included who could weave such spells.

The heroic magician before her motioned for her to present her arms. Maybe he even knew healing magic?

Unfortunately he didn’t.

Merely pouring a strange liquid over her arms, washing away the blood.

He inspected her arms closely and used one of his strange instruments to rid her arms of pebbles, dirt and twigs.

Puzzled, she wondered what he was doing. She had to wince as he sprayed something on the wounds that burned. Ciaráh tried to pull her arms away, but he held tightly onto her wrists. Before she could shout in protest, he grabbed some of the smaller pieces of cloth from the pack and arranged them over her still bleeding arms.

The treatment was apparently finished after he dressed her arms with bandages.

Ciaráh took a whiff but could not make out their material, the odor confusing her.

His work finished, he beamed a smile at her, mouthing words she couldn’t understand.

Probably indicating that his work was done.

A horn sounded, then howls. Not far from the villages. The hunters had returned, and with them her sister.

Finally they would be save.

The last vestiges of apprehension blew away with the sound of the horn.

Ciaráh started crying.

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