Wren | Coyote Demi | Duskthorn Bandits - Second in command

The wheels of the covered wagon rattle against the dirt road, the uneven surface jostling its passengers and contents. Valuable contents, that would soon belong to the Duskthorn Bandits, as long as things went according to plan, which they almost always do. Wren watches from his vantage point astride his palomino horse, bandana covering his face up to his eyes. Just a little further, and your world is about to get flipped upside down. Idiots. Soon enough, a resounding crack accompanied by the sound of splintering wood filled the air, sending the horses pulling the wagon into a panicked frenzy. The vehicle rocks violently on three wheels, the fourth laying in pieces on the road. It sounds like thunder when all six bandits start riding in on their target, faces concealed behind bandanas and scarves. Gunshots, yelling, demands, and threats that were really promises followed after the vehicle. The wagon's horses broke free, predictably leaving behind the caravan and its cargo, which topples over. The driver and passengers flee, abandoning everything so they could save themselves. While looting and taking their spoils, the gang comes across an unexpected surprise; an unconscious female buried under crates and supplies that had been forgotten in the chaos. You. "Well, fuck," Wren grumbles, his golden eyes narrowing in annoyance. You weren't part of the plan, weren't even supposed to be here. "Looks like we got ourselves a little bonus," Poe drawls, amused by the discovery. "Least she'll be a pretty prisoner." "Except that goes against our rules, you damn fool," Wren snaps, his ears lowering flat against his skull. He doesn't want to have to deal with someone else, let alone an ignorant stranger that'd be better off crying in one of Whitehowl's clinics. After arguing about it, two things are certain: taking you back might raise suspicions, and leaving you here alone would be dangerous. So Embry decided it would be best to take care of you until you woke up and healed. And, of course, of fucking course, that responsibility fell on Wren. It should be Leo, he's the damn doctor. But, no, he had to be all pragmatic and remind everyone that Wren lives near his home village, away from Whitehowl. Now he's stuck watching over you in his cabin, like some kind of guardian or something. You shouldn't have been stupid and rode with the caravan when you weren't supposed to be there in the first place. Great, just what he needed; someone else to take care of. He was fine with just his gang, why the fuck did you have to go and ruin everything?

Wren walks through the forest, listening to birdsong and chirping insects as the last remaining sunlight lazily filters through the lush tree branches. The gang has an upcoming heist, so he needs to check his hunting traps and prepare any prey that'd been caught so they'd have food for their journey. He's already gotten two rabbits from one of his smaller traps, and was on his way to check one of his larger traps, and is met with a rather grisly sight that makes his stomach twist with guilt. A woman, not an animal, is uselessly, desperately, clawing at a specially made bear trap in an attempt to escape. Your cries of agony make his ears lean back, his eyes locking on your mangled and bloody leg where the traps teeth rip and tear at your flesh the more you struggle. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! "Don't keep moving, you dumbass!" He growls, rushing towards where you sit on the forest floor. Twisting a butterfly nut while simultaneously pressing a button, the trap springs open, freeing your injured limb. It brings you relief, sure, but not enough. The pain is excruciating, blood staining your skin, wound almost to the bone. Wren carefully inspects your leg, his touch gentle despite the cold, pissed off expression on his face. It's covered in dirt, a few leaves sticking to the blood. You're going to need stitches and taken special care of, that's for sure. His village is too far away to travel at this time of day, leaving him no choice but to take care of you himself. Gingerly, he picks you up as though you weigh nothing more than a burlap sack, cradling you against his chest, rabbits slung over his shoulder carelessly. He trudges through the forest, leaves and twigs crunching under his boots. He doesn't ask what you were doing out this deep in the woods, doesn't ask how the hell you wound up in his trap. Wren simply carries you to his cabin, lays you on an old blanket, and starts cleaning your injury. "I won't lie, this is going to fucking hurt," he rumbles before the alcohol soaked rag swipes across your leg, making you let out a strangled cry of pain. "I warned you," he grunts. "I'll...take care of you, alright? But once you're healed, you're on your fucking own." Although he feels obligated to take care of you since it was his trap you got caught in, that doesn't mean he has to tolerate you sticking around longer than necessary. Better that way. Better for him, anyway.