Weak and Wary; Pale and Scary

Cuu had made a "minor" mistake. Standing at the end of the tree-line, just outside the town of Antiquity, he was near doubled-over in pain. Whatever was in that bottle he drank clearly wasn't enough to fix his broken body right away. He digs his claws deep into the side of a tree for support; sap flowing over his fingers like so much blood.

The hand of Dorothy reaches under his arm, pulling him along gently. "Mister Cuu, I'm thankful you found my basket, I really am; but you really must rest."

"I'd do what she says." The old crone adds. "I've seen what my pretty will do to keep a patient safe; especially from themselves."

Cuu responds with a dissatisfied growl; allowing himself to be pulled back towards the home of this strange girl. When they returned, it was made apparent to Cuu that he hadn't noticed just how large the house was. He wondered just how exactly this strange, untrained Storyteller in a out-of-the-way town would have the money for things such as decorated shingles, hardy insulation, and a full second-floor.

The grandmother looks down to Dorothy, patting the top of her granddaughter's head. "My pretty, I do believe it is time for me to go home. I'll come visit again next week. Oh, and little Cuu?"

The beady eyes of the old woman light up like emerald fires. "Claws to yourself, dearie."

"Goodnight Gran!" Dorothy calls, pulling a key from her pocket. "Mister Cuu, you seem starved. Would you like something to eat."

"I'm... not hungry." His grip on Bobo tightens; while weakened, he still wasn't sure he could trust any who know his Tale.

His stomach betrays his words, however; unleashing a horrid growling noise.

...

Dorothy finished buttering the dinner roll, setting it neatly on the plate by the sliver of dried meat. She heads swiftly to the living room, where her guest is resting on what he called a "wide-chair." She sets the food on the table in front of the couch, next to the glass of water... that he still hadn't taken even a sip from. It nearly made the woman's jaw drop, seeing a man who was naught but skin, bone, and a small bit of muscle ignoring a glass of water, and a plate of fresh food.

She puts her hands on her hips, taking up a fussy tone. "Mister Cuu, you really must eat."

He eyes the food cautiously, poking at the dried meat with his claws, then returning to gazing at the toy in his hand; as if in a daze. This was beginning to grow tiring, worrying, and frustrating. Seeing as Dorothy had quite a bit of wine earlier, it was mostly the latter. She picks up the dinner roll, and shoves it right under Cuu's nose.

"I am no longer asking, Mister Cuu. Eat. You're starving."

The Wolf replies as expected. He growls at the woman, smacking the roll out of her hand, and shuffling further away on the couch. She picks the roll up from the carpet, dusting it off, and tries again; noticing that the man was growing even paler than usual.

"Eat." She demands. "You're half-dead from hunger; let alone your injuries. How in the world are you supposed to get better if you're starving?

"Who said I want to get better, Storyteller?!" Cuu shouts, his gaunt face twisting into a grimace; his speech slurring as he begins to grow mildly delusional. "Why would someone like you even want me to get better!? If you haven't forgotten, I'm... I'm..."

The Wolf seems to grow faint, before falling off the couch, hitting his head on the table, and slumping onto the floor like a corpse.

...

Cuu's eyes open. This is something he regrets right away, as at least his nightmares held some safety from the pain that still wracked his body. The only pleasant sensation he could feel was the cold, wet cloth on his forehead. Oddly, his hunger and thirst had subsided greatly; looking to his bedside, he notices empty bowls of what smells to be chicken broth. The aroma reminds him of his father's cooking; now, a bittersweet memory.

He sits up slightly, the light of the sun peaking in through the window above his bed. Looking over his shaking body, the cuts, bruises, and bites he once had seemed to have closed fully; scabbing and scarring over in a deep, dark shade of red. His ankles now had proper casts over them, restricting his movement to little more than shuffling around on the mattress. The door to the room opens, and the Storyteller enters; seemingly happy to see him.

"Well, how was the days long rest, Mister Cuu?" She asked, smiling as she sat by his bedside. "Your fever broke this morning; next time you head out into the cold night, I'll have to lend you a coat."

The Wolf feels reticent to reply; somewhat lost in thought.

"Days long rest? Fever? Was I poisoned? How long have I been sleeping? Is she lying? What if she sent notice to Roundtable..." He grew only more worried with each intrusive thought; his fearful, angry eyes telling Dorothy all she needed to know.

She leaves, returning with that same book Cuu had reclaimed from the woods; along with his only remaining friend. She hands Bobo to the weak Wolf, popping the book open, and flipping it to the first page.

"When I was a little girl, my Father would read to me if I wasn't feeling well." Says Dorothy. "What about you, Mister Cuu?"

Cuu could tell what she was doing. She was trying to pull secrets from him; endear herself to him. Her father may have given her bedtime stories, but his father had given him far more important lessons. He could practically hear the old man in his head, as well as the swaying movement of that mass of red cloth...

"Trust no one... Never show weakness... Survive by any means..."

"Well?"

His attention returns to the present; with the Storyteller looming over him, asking about his life. He crosses his arms, or at least, tries to. His weak limbs could barely manage anything more than shuffling his wrists over each other; as if expecting to be bound by straps. Cuu turns his head away from the girl, to which she sighs. It's then that another of his father's lessons returns to the forefront of his mind.

"Be kind to the kind, and be wicked to the wicked."

Dorothy was about to simply close her book, and leave Cuu to his thoughts; until he cleared his raspy throat, and spoke with a calm, polite tone of voice.

"I wouldn't mind hearing a story, Doctor Oswald."