It is early morning after a full moon. Ignan is 45 and Nightingale is 10. Ignan has parted with Georg for several years, and has not yet met Azorma (1994), or Sasha's mother (1992). Visual reference at about this age.

---

It had been a long night up a tree, watching, waiting, listening. Ignan Storm had barely managed to climb up in time after the wolf's transformation. He hadn't wanted to climb a tree to early. His presence made known at just the right time ensured that the lycan hadn't travelled too far from him, making him easy prey by morning.

For a long night he had stayed in a tree about fifteen feet off the ground, listening to the wolf prowl around and consider how it might reach him. But armed with his wand, and also able to apparate away if he required, Ignan had the definite upper hand. Eventually the moon had dipped, and the wolf sounded like it had settled, exhausted and ready to transform back into the man he was.

Three weeks ago, Ignan had arrived in the area having heard about a recent werewolf attack. The recipient hadn't been turned but torn apart in the woods, limb from limb and half eaten. The local community were appalled when this had been identified, and the news hadn't been kept quiet long.

Ignan hadn't ever considered himself a werewolf hunter of any sort, but he and Georg had never been afraid of a little hunting, including taking down a nundu as part of a larger team. He knew enough of weres, and the behaviour of the community piqued his interest on arrival. Some suspected some travellers had a werewolf within their camp, others thought it was a cover up, but Ignan's gaze had settled on some rather more telling body language in the proclamations of their well respected local healer who had identified the cause of death.

It had taken a little time to earn the man's trust, under the pretence he was more interested in learning about the death and particular popular local treatments, but two nights ago the healer had confessed in private. His son had been turned, and it was proving difficult to contain him and keep it quiet. The previous month had been the undoing, and he and his son didn't know what to do.

Whereas a noble man might have offered to help or suggest some sort of fortification to contain a transformation, Ignan too easily offered to end the son's cursed life. Not while he was fully transformed, but soon enough after before he was able to recover and make his way home. Ignan wouldn't get the glory of having killed the wolf to the locals, but he would get the rest of the money, and a tale to tell another day if he could save the family the pain. 

In the dim light of daybreak, he thought the wolf had gone to ground and was preparing to transform back, and felt safe to descend the tree. Missing his footfall, he wrenched his arm and the branches tore into his side, dropping the last six feet without warning to the foot of the tree, and on the tail of the werewolf which was lurking beneath enough of the canopy to obscure it from above.

Bleeding from his right side and a sharp pain in his left shoulder from the fall, he was faced with a werewolf less than a foot away. His luck was that the surprise of his appearance and the wolf's sleepiness from the daylight approaching meant that he escaped without bite or scratch as he slit its neck. Not the necessary ending he had hoped for, given the speed he had to finish it with.

Now, to do the necessary. His own blood was staining through his shirt from the gash by his ribs and the pain from his arm stang. Voices approaching unexpectedly made him flee. He was in no state to duel or put his face to this farse. He tried to run softly in the opposite direction, gripping his left arm with his right hand. His wand was pressed to his quite possibly dislocated limb, should he be pursued.

Fit enough, but quite clearly injured, he ran for several minutes before he had to stop, panting, and happened to look up and see an encampment before him. These were the people some suspected were harbouring the wolf. Untrue, but the story would now play to his advantage in reverse.

Approaching the nomadic settlement, he adopted a bedraggled, victims expression.
"Sorry - I'm lost." He spoke in English, testing the waters for languages. He had such a scant knowledge of French it was worse than nothing. "There's a wolf in the woods - came after me. I had to run to get away." Here was hoping the blood and the awkward way he held his arm would back this claim up beautifully...

Just for reference this picture is pretty close to how I see Gale at this age. Little Prince by Saimain.

---

The warm fire light burned through the night, a beacon to those in need, those troubled, and those without refuge; but the encampment was not as welcoming as the golden light of a gypsy sun. Their laughing faces and wild eyes seemed to ignite with a flame far more at blaze than the burning embers, but upon the man they turned them as if they were made of wolves. The crocked spine of the elders twisted in an attempt to better see the man, and those of youth straightened in their stance. Like tall oaks and twisted ash their bodies seemed as strong as the trees around them, but they made no motion to threaten the man.

The music didn’t stop, the deep drums with the vibrant flutes, and the silver strings and the lose fingers that played them beat in time with the natural rhythm of the forest. The song was as upbeat at the hearts that burst in their chest, filled so much life their laughter seemed as inviting as their knives, but none carried such a burdening grin that would cause the man to feel afraid. He didn’t look the part to understand such fear, and in the eyes of their King this was enough to welcome him.

Seated on his throne, a man with hair black as night, and eyes just the same tormented the truths with his silver tongue. He laughed with his brothers and filled the night with stories of their youth. He had little interest in the stranger until he spoke, and with eyes that seemed entirely made up black he cast his judgment. He stared openly and without shame at the man, but had this way of making you feel as though he were staring through you—searching your soul. This king and his crown of invisible thorns openly studied the newcomer as if he were a plague, but made no motion to speak. He understood the man’s words, but still spoke in a language that sounded as if it were made up the seven deadly sins,

"Ov yilo isi."[1] To the woman at his side he spoke, who sat poised on her knees as if ready to strike. Her long beautiful fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a half drawn dagger, and her well-used, expert hands seemed to promise a death more swift than the maker. Her face, flawless in it’s perfection seemed to be made of glass and ready to crack at how harshly she held her lips over her clenched teeth. She did not trust him, and that written clearly despite how her husband dismissed the danger. She wanted nothing more than the man to leave, but covered in blood as he was she knew his fate—she hated her husband for his pity.

“Roma! Arise.” From his chest the voice boomed and he motioned for his trophy wife to do as she was instructed, and with a deathly glare she sheathed the blade to rise to her feet. The naked steps of her bare feet sounded out with the shells and beads that adorned her ankles, and with hips swaying little golden coins stole the silence.  Her large eyes swept over the man, and she smirked now with swollen red lips as she closed the distance. When Madame moved no one dare look away, all watched in envy of the way her feet moved over the ground, jealous of the way the night painted her hair, and of the firelight that warmed her skin.

“You are a long way from home,” She spoke in a tongue that sounded as though it would curse the very air he breathed if given the chance, but the venom there was as intoxicating as the rich earthy scent that rose off her skin. What a man would give to be beneath her as she mounted their hips, but for the right price—even this stranger could know such pleasure.

“Come. To the fire.” The blood at first didn’t seem as bad from where their king sat, but upon closer glance his whore of a wife noticed how deep the cut went. She turned her wide eyes to the man she was tied to, and quickly spoke again in the language that they shared. With the news of his wound, Ignan’s welcome changed. He wasn’t regarded as a threat but quickly pulled into their hospitality.

“Here let me—“ When she moved to help him, a silence fell over the camp, and her eyes turned to her husband who held his hand.

“Stop. I’ll not have your hands soiled with this stranger. This man who has come upon my camp and not asked for my permission to enter.” Jean-Luc’s voice broke from his lips without the passion of his wife, but still it was as rich. “Tell me what reason I have to believe that you were lost, Mon ami this far from town? Come, to my fire and state your case.” He gestured to the vacant seat by his throne of old fallen branches and antlers, and as his men came to move Ignan along elder hands came to press fabrics to his wounds.

None of the men or women here possessed the magic like this outsider, but seemed as powerful as any other mage. They were not wizards nor were they witches, but fortune tellers and tramps. However, along the row of men who stood like soldiers around the fire a tiny face colored like the moon peered from behind the stout legs of the much taller men. White hair  that fell over his frail little shoulders, was painted like the winter night that gave him life, and his silver eyes reflected the light of the fire like a pair of mirrors. He stood like a pixie, dressed in rags that were far too big, and barefoot just trying to not be noticed. With the late hour he was sent to bed long ago, but had been watching from his bed inside his grandmother's painted wagon. It was her hands that tended to the man now, and Nightingale was fascinated by him. He was different, but he couldn't see how just yet--and beautiful.

1.	It is okay.

Had he not been hurt, he wouldn't have dared step towards them, but at that moment he needed enough time to vanish in case the voices he had heard were following. They would not dare to step this way, with any luck. He would have to take his chances.

Gripping his left arm tightly, suspecting it had been wrenched from its socket now from the pain and lack of use, Ignan stood his ground while the raven-haired man at the heart of the group stared at him intensely.

His knee-high boots were muddy from the scuffle, and he wore green trousers, tucked into them, a dark grey jacket hung from his shoulders, well worn, warm enough for a night up a tree, and beneath it a white shirt, torn to pieces on one side and bloody. A little blood was smeared on his face with mud, and he still clasped his wand in his right hand, which also held his upper left arm.

Words were spoken he did not understand, but they were not leaping upon him to take him down, they had not tried to scare him off. Perhaps he should have thought to hide his wand.

“Roma! Arise.” Ignan tried to steady his breathing from the run that had led him to that place. A woman beside the man who spoke stood and traversed the space between them, her clothing ringing out like music. His eyes followed her, and still he held his ground.

“You are a long way from home,” His eyes met hers steadily, although she was a sight to behold, he didn't dare let his gaze betray those thoughts. He nodded once, confirming. Her eyes had fallen to his side.
“Come. To the fire.”

Ignan looked to her cautiously, she spoke in that tongue he did not recognise again, and she reached out to touch him.
“Here let me—“

The music had stopped, and the sea of eyes were firmly fixed on the two of them. Ignan's heart near stopped as well, and he swallowed.

“Stop. I’ll not have your hands soiled with this stranger." The man with raven hair spoke once more. "This man who has come upon my camp and not asked for my permission to enter. Tell me what reason I have to believe that you were lost, Mon ami this far from town? Come, to my fire and state your case.”

Ignan saw the gesture to approach, and glanced to the woman, and then made his way steadily and softly across the ground, behind some of the others, to the place indicated. The heat from the fire reached his skin as he neared. Every step felt a risk, and the pain continued to stretch out from his wound and shoulder as he moved closer, though, to his surprise, hands reached to press something against his wound.

He opened his mouth to say something in surprise, but no sound came. Instead he forced himself to look upon their leader once more. He inclined his head respectfully.

"My name is Ignan Storm." He spoke as clearly in English as he could, his accent clinging to the words. "I seek permission to enter your camp as I am injured. I met a wolf amongst the woods and in my attempt to outrun it, I…" He lowered his gaze, as if to indicate that his appearance spoke far better than words. "Take me as a fool, I wanted to hunt the wolf who killed last month. I very nearly became its second victim." He softened his gaze as best he could.
"I pose no threat to your people." He let go of his arm with a grimace and placed his wand down between his feet, not so far away that he couldn't step upon it to prevent it being snatched, but out of his hand, and less of a threat. "I will leave if you ask me now."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a pale face belonging to a figure much shorter than the men he stood amongst. He risked a glance, thinking at first it might be an animal that was unrestrained, but it was just a child, staring wide-eyed. There was something about the figure that had caught his attention in the same way another wizard could catch one's attention in a crowd of Muggles. Ignan quickly averted his gaze once he had seen there was no threat, turning his attention back to the man closest to him again, while the woman continued to press the fabric against his wound.

My name is Ignan Storm. A name the king felt fitting of this man, though nothing about him seemed to be brewing with contempt. Take me as a fool. How could they? Hunting a wolf was one thing, but to hunt it out of vengeance? There was nothing that seemed wrong, or at least in the eyes of the caravan leader.

I post no threat to your people. With that there was laughter, small at first and foolish.

"Monsieur," French of all languages seemed rather eerie on the tip of this man's tongue. "We have little to worry about, as we only have one thing to lose. And if you are sick enough to take this, then there are greater deaths waiting for you." His dark eyes slid to the boy, and feeling the weight of his father's glare Gale quickly darted for the wagon.

Silently, words were exchanged. Not from their lips or even of their voices, but when Jean-Luc turned a glance to the old hag who came up to the fire they shared a knowing glance.

"Let him stay, Jean-Luc, give him to me so that I can heal his wounds, and we will see to it that our wolf has been fed." Though her voice was spirited, her body seemed broken--bent. The oldest of the camp she didn't move as quickly as one should, but it was clear she carried the fate of the caravan on her shoulders. Like holding up mighty oaks, she was the root that kept them on the ground, and even their king wouldn't defy her.

"Come, child, you only have to carry your burden just a little longer." Her spider like hands came out to touch the man's sleeve in attempt to lead him to where he'd find his refuge for the night. "My children will shelter you, for the night at least." The Mad Madame only had one eye, or so one would assume. The lid was closed nearly sealed, and when it would crack a glistening sheet of pearly white exposed itself like the moon over the hills. Yet, she did nothing to hide it. Her walk was slow, hobbling really, but seemed to quicken once they came closer to the wagon.

"Got you good the wolf did." She grunted through her words, "Lost two of our own with it. Ignorant fools more interested in keeping their pleasure aflame than their future. But not my boy."

The door was open, the cool summer night breeze sweeping through the old painted wagon, and inside the space seemed much larger than it should. The walls were lined with old books and half burned candles, spider webs and broken bones, animal skulls and various bottles all full of strange liquids. Bits of sheer fabric were draped around the open floor, acting as a curtain to the bedding in the back, and Madame narrowed her good eye.

"Don't you be' pretendin' to sleep boy, up with ya. We've got company. I saw you out there." She brought her walking cane to tap the back of her spine, "Got mah' eyes back there son." It was true, Gale was convinced. She could see out of the back of her head just as well the front. It was as if she had eyes even in the forest, and knew that Ignan was coming long before he ever stepped foot on the path. However, on another round table by an old chair a deck of cards, painted with fate, were scattered about as if they had been read a thousand times.

"I know you are awake. Up."

Through the sheer fabric he stood, bare feet hardly making a sound as he slipped from his protective web, but the silver bells around his ankle made of for the silence. With one glance he nearly looked through the man trying to see beyond just the obvious. He was dressed nicely yes, but the blood made it hard to make out if the stitching was fine or a messy second hand. This man had aristocratic features, but Gale didn't trust anyone in politics. He especially didn't trust a stranger covered in wolves blood.

"Sit my child," The old hag spoke again to Ignan, "On the table there, and let's have a look hmm? Undress. The little prince will help you should you need it." With that she turned her attention to her brewing, the various supplies of medical crafts and ointments.

---

OOC: Make me stop writing!! Omg. If I got too far let me know.
<3

With a careful glance over his shoulder, Ignan followed the old woman's shuffling steps across the ground between the light and warmth of the fire to her home. Sometimes there was a feeling that it might be a little too easy to enter such a camp - that the moment he was resting a hand would be there to slit his throat, or when he was well he would not be allowed to leave until a debt was paid. He didn't wish to leave without paying something towards his debt, he knew that, but at that time of the morning it was hard to say how.

"Got you good the wolf did. Lost two of our own with it. Ignorant fools more interested in keeping their pleasure aflame than their future. But not my boy."

Ignan was surprised at the mention of the wolf attacking others. Those had been kept quiet from the local magical community - only the attack last full moon had been mentioned by the werewolf's father. Ignan wondered if the two the woman spoke of had been torn limb from limb and eaten into by the wolf too. Had they known that the travellers had also lost people to the wolf, they would not be so quick to suspect them for harbouring the beast. Then again, the wolf's healer father had been happy to ensure the rumour persisted to draw attention from his family. His morals were grey enough what with employing Ignan to 'solve' his family's problem.

He would venture to ask later, at that moment the pain through his left shoulder and the oozing of blood from his right side were far more preoccupying. He was glad of the woman's steady pace, the run towards them away from those who were almost certainly at the scene he had left behind had only worsened the pain. The wagon ahead was safety for now, however cluttered and full of curiosities it was. Another adventure to add to his collection, either way.

"Don't you be' pretendin' to sleep boy, up with ya. We've got company. I saw you out there. Got mah' eyes back there son. I know you are awake. Up."

The child from the fire appeared again and looked at him in the same way the men had at the fire - suspicion, curiosity, suppressed animosity.

"Sit my child, on the table there, and let's have a look hmm? Undress. The little prince will help you should you need it."

Adult and child stared at each other a moment before Ignan moved to where was indicated and let go of his left arm finally, which hung at an awkward angle by his side. His right hand made an attempt to remove his jacket and shirt through the pain, fumbling at the buttons with cold fingertips. He momentarily lost his temper with the clothing stuck to his damp back from the sweat and blood, difficult to remove it with one working arm, and not wishing to dare let a child touch him.

Eventually the garments came away, and the cool air prickled his clammy skin, revealing a torso that was fit for his age, light hair clinging to his chest, and bruises deepening from red grazes into purple blotches across his ribs and shoulder where he had hit branches and tree trunk on his unintended slick descent from the canopy. His eyes went to his bleeding side, his own blood smeared across his stomach from it. The shirt and jacket discarded had both his and the wolf's blood, but now it was clear to see how the splinters of wood had torn his side. It wasn't a wolf cut, most definitely a branch from the debris in the wound.

Ignan's face curled into a pained grimace as his mind observed the injury, and then he noticed the young eyes on him and straightened his expression, looking over at the boy, uncomfortable at the way he watched without discrimination. It had been some time since he had been around children of this age, and never in such circumstances.

Clumsily, the wizard pressed what remained of the fabric to his side, realising that it would require bathing and something to stop it becoming infected after the splinters had been pulled from the skin. If he had not been in the presence of people with questionable magical status he would have tried to heal himself, but he hoped that the woman would be able to apply treatments without wand magic which would at least enable him to leave the area and travel on until he could reach a healer to complete the job for some gold.

"If this is too much, I will leave and find help elsewhere. I am able to walk, and the sun will rise." He spoke to the woman, eyes shifting from the boy, and then returning. It was unlikely she would be strong enough to help him put back his arm, anyhow. He had put another's back in place when he was an auror, but never his own.

Still watching the boy he asked,
"The two of your own the wolf got, when was that?" He shuffled his fingers on the blood soaked cloth pressed against his right side. "The people I spoke with only knew one of their own had been found last full moon."

“Sit back, sit back. Before you fall over.” The Mad Madame spat the words as she hobbled from one task to the next. “Your arm is out of place, but that is the least of my concerns right now. I worry mostly of this blood. The infection. The Splinters.” Her old and weather worn hands worked over the various tools, the water boiling them to clean what she could, but with her back to them she hadn’t the slightest clue (despite the promises of another set of eyes) that the stranger still stood.

Gale never let his eyes fall away from the other man’s, not once. His heart in his hands, he felt it pounding beneath his chest, but he wouldn’t allow such weakness to show. He stood straight, stern and steady; as if he stood against a storm wind, and refused to be moved. He had been given instructions to help, but made no motion to follow through. The arm he could fix, the blood he could not, and no matter how many times he saw such a sight pass over his grandmother’s table he didn’t get used to it. However, this man was different. It wasn’t the blood, nor the open wound. It wasn’t the bone, nor the tired way he seemed to glare right through him that fascinated Nightingale, it was the way the too little flame seemed to illuminate the blood beneath his skin. He was different, like his father, and Gale wondered if he were a king somewhere too.

’Rossignol… Rossignol? In his thoughts he heard his name, but it didn’t call him home. Rossignol, a log for the fire?  Books slammed against the floor, heavy and sound, and finally Gale’s attention was drawn from the quiet thoughtful place he far too often retreated to.

Li’ ha’ eer! Rossignol! Madame, cursed at him slipping from language to language, and threatening to curse him. “I’ll get it myself, can’t get anything done without clean tools now can we? Old rusty things that they are, dangerous enough as it is.” She muttered to herself and handed him a clean set of rags, “Get to pressing on that. Hard, I’ll be right back.” The kettle of water had yet to come to a boil, but it wasn’t just the fire Madame worried of. Yet, it couldn’t have been the man for she left her grandchild to join the night.

Alone now, he felt the room far too heavy with the silence, and moved to close the distance between them. Drawn to his difference, Gale reached out to place cold fingers gently to the man’s side, and started to press at the wound. The blood felt warm between his fingers as it soaked the rag, and it would have been easier to reach if the man were on his back.

In the summer months they didn’t keep a fire going, so the embers were not hot enough yet to boil the water quickly, but just being this close he could see the splinter that his otherwise blind grandmother would have missed.

“A wolves tooth that is made of wood?” He asked the man with untrusting eyes, and touched his unbroken arm gently to ease him back. Biting his lip his silver eyes filled with the death of the fire as it snuffed out in the wood stove, and he looked between the man and the open mouth before narrowing his gaze on the dying ember. Otherwise colorless gray came to life with a bit of the flame as he called the fire forward, and when the kettle started to steam atop the stove again Gale returned his attention to the man.

“It’s not a wolf.” He spoke again, breaking the silence as he started to dab the hot water on the wound, and though he could hardly see over the man’s torso he took a glance to his face, “You know this. They know this. My father hunts it, but he does not want me to know. Many things he does not want me to know. But I hear them argue each night. I’ll be eleven in December. For some reason that is important, and why we will keep to English soil.”  Gale was too skinny for his age, but most children were in this sort of life. Drugs and sin often saw to the elders waste, but being undereducated and underfed were the true crimes.

“There is good money on your wolf’s head no?” For a child who didn’t talk, his voice felt more used than it had been in months, and when he settled his eyes back into Ignan he searched for truth. “Maybe yours as well?”

“Sit back, sit back. Before you fall over. Your arm is out of place, but that is the least of my concerns right now. I worry mostly of this blood. The infection. The Splinters.”

The young boy seemed fascinated with him. Ignan wondered if he had seen such a state, or whether it was because he was a stranger to the camp.

“Get to pressing on that. Hard, I’ll be right back."

More material was pressed into the boy's fingers and the woman instructed him firmly before leaving Ignan and the child alone. Once frozen, he seemed to come out of his dream and stepped forward, the two of them regarding each other with mild suspicion. Ignan drew a small gasp of air as the boy's small hands pressed the material against the wound.

“A wolves tooth that is made of wood?” The voice spoke from beside him and Ignan's keen eyes fixed on the boy's face. The figure touched his arm gently to signal the wizard should lie down, and he did without taking his eyes off the boy.
"I didn't say I had been bitten. If I had been, I would not have come here." Ignan replied in a low, quiet voice, stare becoming firm. He would not have come to people to be saved if he was potentially a werewolf. He'd have dragged himself away from the place as soon as he could, half hoping he would perish in the month that followed rather than turn.

“It’s not a wolf.” Hot water reached the wound and Ignan's face creased in pain. “You know this. They know this. My father hunts it, but he does not want me to know. Many things he does not want me to know. But I hear them argue each night. I’ll be eleven in December. For some reason that is important, and why we will keep to English soil.”

As the initial shock of the heat against torn flesh subsided, Ignan managed to look at the child a little better as it worked.
"No, it is not just a wolf." He agreed, not sure how much they knew, or he dared to say. He hissed as the boy dabbed the boiling water still and a nerve sparked.

“There is good money on your wolf’s head no? Maybe yours as well?”

"It depends who you ask." Ignan replied and his tired eyes glinted a moment. "But on the wolf, yes. He's a cursed man, who troubles a community with his full moon prowls. I was only there to put him out of his misery, end his half-life and release his family who keep it secret." He looked to the child to see if he understood. "I have not been bitten, you have nothing to fear of the wolf from now either, it is my promise."

Ignan's mouth turned into a smirk and he turned his eyes to the ceiling a moment, in thought of the second conclusion.

"If there is good money on my head, I'd only be too glad to collect it on behalf of those who pursue me." He let out a shuddered breath and guttural utterance of pain as the young boy worked.

"I owe the splinters to an untimely descent from a tree, no more."

The older man turned his head once more to regard the child by his side.
"What significance is eleven, and British soil?" He frowned, thinking of his own family and their traditions around that age. "Is there something there for you and your family?"

Little fingers still did as they were told, pressed upon the man’s skin over rags stained now to match the drapes--a deep crimson color that was a stark contrast to the pale moon-lit sky outside, but Gale’s attention wasn’t on the wound any more than it was the idea of what Ignan would have done had he been bitten. The man spoke as though he wouldn’t have come at all, but how would he have ever found help? Did he mean for it to sound as though his will was a death sentence and not a final plea for sanctuary?

The men of their caravan were not the sort to give their own lives so easily. They spoke out about loyalty amongst thieves, but he’d known way too many turn their back upon his father. Their kind slept with one eye open, and knives beneath their pillows--and wouldn’t give their life for just anyone. If the bite was an infection they would have come back to the camps in search of spirits strong enough to drown the pain, and foolishly wait until the next full moon to find out the truth.

I have not been bitten, you have nothing to fear of the wolf from now either, it is my promise.

Nightingale, watched him a moment, admiring the way his face hardened with his firm words, how the pride and his duty swelled around him like the sun, and he returned the man’s smirk before speaking.

“Even if you were, you would still be welcome here.” Gale leaned in to whisper a little, “But I wouldn’t be so quick to tell that there might be money on your head. Then you will become our prisoner, and locked away. The whores will throw themselves on you as they can not resist an outlaw, and your prick will fall off with infection.” The little Romany boy spoke without an ounce of humor, and recited Ignan’s fate as if he were already condemned--and just as it was always told to him. However, when it came time to think of this man in a tree Gale’s entire being perked up, and he looked to the wounded with a joyful grin.

“Whatever were you doing in a tree?” Just like a child to find this funny, the little break in his emotion was a pleasant one, and did his far too mature demeanor well. A child who witnessed too much forgot to find happiness in little things like funny images of proper gentleman up in trees, and how they must have made funny sounds on the way down. He climbed trees often, but never ever thought of the possibility of what it would be like to fall. This man was awful hurt, and he gave him mind to be more careful next time.

What significance is eleven, and British Soil? Came the man’s next question, but Gale could only concentrate on how that smirk of his turned into a frown--and how badly it hurt his heart.

“I’m not sure what is there, or what it is. But I do know that I must go alone. Something about a better life, and a better opportunity.” He sighed heavily, and let his eyes fall back to his hands that were still picking out splinters, “I would lie if I wasn’t afraid.” His little face darkened with a blush as it pained him to even admit it, but the frustration wasn’t just with the fear.

Running his fingers down now from the wound, the bandage was doing well to stop the bleeding he traced the man’s shoulder, but stopped where the arm looked so very out of place. With a little twist of his mouth and a twitch of his nose he looked back to the man’s eyes.

“That is going to hurt very much, are you afraid?” On the bench there beside the bed Gale curled up on his knees to put his chin on the back of his hand to watch the man with complete captivation. One hand still pressed gently on the wound, but it was easy enough to rest just the same. The hour was very late, and most of the children had gone to bed already.

"Are you afraid of anything?" He didn't look the sort.

Tired, sore, Ignan didn't resist the boy's wandering eyes and the trail of his finger. He was, after all, just a child, and innocent of anything more sinister in thought. He was weary and was looking forward to sleeping, only his injuries had to be dealt with, or he had to make a run for it.

"So many questions." Ignan chuckled to himself and gave a sigh, testing out how well he could breathe with the tear in his side. His shoulder ached like fire. The boy was unphased, fascinated.

"I was waiting for the wolf in the tree, of course. Only I didn't quite manage a graceful descent." He gestured gingerly with his working arm at his injuries. He turned his head to look at where the boy had settled.

"I have had worse to fear." He admitted, his eyes half closing a moment as he tried to clear his head from the pain. "Are you scared?" He asked the young boy curled on the bench with a hand still pressed to the wizard's side.

His heart swelled for the man, the sort that made it feel as though it would burst with how much it hurt. He wanted to take his pain, and wished his grandmother would hurry. Maybe it would be best if he did sleep, they could set the arm, heal the wounds, and no doubt knock him out anyway before this night was over. Ignan hadn't hit his head had he? His pupils seemed well enough.

Switching hands, Gale let his nimble little fingers push a bit of the man's brown hair from his forehead, "I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said no," He answered with a small smile, still petting the man's hair, and gently running his fingertips along the smooth skin at his temple, "And coming from a gypsy that would be a conundrum." He struggled on the last word, having never been very good at pronouncing things--never knowing which language to use, he knew so many.

The boy fell silent, letting them have just the moment of peace before he started to hum gently, "Close your eyes. Sleep. It will all be over in the morning, and this will be just a dream." He never asked her how she did it, or why it was they couldn't take their fallen with them. But Gale knew the old mage would heal him with the thin side of a stick, and nestle him on the mossy grass somewhere hidden from the world.

Ignan flinched away as the child petted his head - not immediately, but he wasn't keen on the boy's grandmother coming back and seeing them like that - she might get the wrong idea, and he wasn't in the best position to run - shirtless, bleeding and dislocated. He could hex her and the boy, he reasoned to himself.

The boy seemed to not mind this and left him be a moment before suggesting sleep.

"Arms do not put themselves back in sockets in their sleep." He murmured, feeling tired, that was true, he'd stayed up all night in a tree after all. Grimacing, he grasped his dislocated left arm with his wand arm and sat up slightly, all the better for surveying his circumstances.

"Where has she gone?" He asked, ears straining for noises. He felt ever so slightly unsure about things now. The pain in his side stang, and his arm throbbed. Ignan's face creased and he tried to look at his injured arm himself, broken bones were easy, but a dislocation was better done by hand. He let go, and his right hand fingertips found his wand instinctively.

"No, they don't, but it would be wise to rest now while you can. And--" He wasn't sure where his grandmother went, or what was keeping her so long. As a matter of fact...the Caravan was far too quiet for his liking.

At that exact moment the door opened again with a few men followed by the old hag to set the man's arm, but they had that look on their faces. That dark almost malice look of how much they were looking forward to this. Pain was of the every day, but this was of a different sort. This came with a debt that would be owed, and favors to be repaid later--the Romany's favorite kind.

"What are you doing here?" Gale demanded, but was ignored and nearly trampled by the men.

"They are here to set the man's arm, Nightingale. Move out of their way."

"Will it hurt him?"

"Yes, very much so, but you are ready are you not?" She asked of Ignan, but Gale pulled on her skirts.

"You are not going to at least give him something to help with the pain?" He asked his large silver eyes hopeful, and the men laughed at the boy as they poked at Ignan's socket. "Why would he need something like that, man fell from a tree, he can take it. Isn't that right?" They all smelled of moonshine, weed, and sweat. Their breath was foul as if having just been woken up, but they could get the job done. However, when one of the taller men saw that Gale was hiding his face in his grandmother's skirts he laughed, "Oh no you don't boy, you will watch this."

"But you are going to hurt him!" The little pale haired child challenged, and started for his bed. Before he could get too far one of the men reached out and turned him around, held him in a hold between his legs as he sat on a stool and forced the boy's face forward.

"It will toughen him up. Good for a lad to see what happens when you fall from trees. Can't keep him out of them." The old hag spoke to Ignan as the rest took their place, Gale's little muffled sounds of struggle eased as he watched.

"Ready? 1..2.." With every number Gale screamed more and pulled at the hand that held his mouth shut, hot tears trailed down his face. He didn't want to watch this. He liked this guy! He had a funny nose and smelled like pine. His hair was soft, and he spoke to him. They couldn't hurt him!!

"3."

He needn't have asked, the caravan suddenly filled with men. The boy was most alarmed at the arrival, and switched from curiously calm to frantic. Ignan wasn't sure whether to heed this alarm or not, it wasn't clear if they were there to give him a beating or to help. Either way it was going to hurt.

Popping it back was a wrench and the pain was there in a flash and then became a sharp, throbbing ache. But the sharp pain was ebbing away. He managed to catch the yelp in his throat as it happened, but he still closed his eyes tightly as it happened. Merlin, he wouldn't be doing that in a hurry.

When he opened his eyes again he could see the boy sat on a stool, a hand over his mouth, tears streaming down his face and tried to keep a steely expression. It worried him that the men would beat the boy, or him, for giving reassurance to a minor, but he hopefully tried to convey in his expression that the worst was over. His side was still torn, and the shoulder would be a while to heal the muscles, but it was back. He tenderly tried to move it, and thought better of it, let it settle.

"Thank you." He offered gruffly, "I believe that's done it." His hand went to his bare shoulder, fingertips tracing the skin, checking for anything unfamiliar. His eyes found the faces of the men cautiously, unsure if they would stay much longer or whether now they'd put his shoulder back, they'd be no longer interested. The fact he'd not sworn in pain or cursed them, or used his magic might mean he was uninteresting. The boy however, found him very interesting.

"There are worse fates for falling out of a tree." He assured the boy, remembering that he'd stated himself as having run away, an innocent, at the campfire. "I'm only glad the wolf didn't get me when it happened."

"Bet that feels better don't it?" One of the men leered over the man on the table, his half toothless grin like a half moon, and his breath smelled like decay. There was a fortress of sleeve surrounding Ignan, men in their early years but looking horridly older than they seemed. Fleas are away at the base of their neck and old festering wounds, and the clothes were stained with various body fluids.

"Look here, almost as deep as the bone no?" One man touched Ignan's side in an attempt to get a rise out of him, "Running from a wolf you say?" He poked at the man's side again, and Gale was quick to snap from his hold and cross the room in a flash of white to kick the man's shin.

"Stop it!" In Romany they shouted, the languages shifting as fast as their heartbeats, and tempers flying. Passionate people turned ugly fast, and the fight became a whirl wind of excitement. Gale did well to defend himself, and before the fight could be broken up he used his swift motions and fast reflexes to land a blow between the man's legs and flip over his shoulder to escape. His time in the trees paid off, mostly when they needed to run, but now Gale just tried to get to the door.

"I'm going to get you, you little son of a pig fucking whore, and string yo--"

When the door opened the air went out, the warm night froze over with the shadow lingering in the door. With the campfire light he looked like a shadow from hell, the long black figure a perfect picture of both fear and pain, and in a voice that sounded like thunder he boomed,

"Enough." Jean-Luc stepped in the light, his large black eyes pinning the men where they stood, his spider-like hand reaching out to beckon his son forward, and Gale slipped from out of the thugs grasp to meet the man's grasp.

"We have a guest, is this any way to show him our hospitality?" He asked with a devil's smirk and ran his fingers over the fine gossamer strands of Nightingale's hair. Gale gave the man a rather smug look, and curled into his father's side. The band of thieves all stood darkly waiting to be released, but the one with the swollen groin glared back at the boy.

"You may go." The gypsy king ordered passively, excusing his serpants for now, but stopped the man with his glaring eyes in the door with the tip of a razor sharp knife. In the meantime, the old hag returned to Ignan's side to start patching him up.

"Mister Fargo," Jean-Luc's voice hissed quietly, like steam through cracks in a hearth, "Lose the thoughts hmm? He is just a child, and no matter how many pigs you may think I have lain with, I assure you his mother is not one of them." Back in English the words passed, but the spirit of them held back his growl. However, before the man left Gale stuck out his tongue until the men were gone and Jean-Luc turned his glare on his son; who instantly slunk away.

The room was empty now, void of men with cockroach shells between their teeth, and vacant of any horrid smells. Even Gale moved on to start cleaning from their tussle.

"Are you in much pain, Mon Ami?" The gypsy king asked as he came up to Ignan's side, and examined the wound himself. With a wide eye look to the hag he stopped her a moment, and asked the wizard a more....personal question, "Don't you have something that will make this easier?" He gave a pointed look to where one might hide a wand upon being shirtless.

As the men continued to prod and poke him, Ignan continued to school his expression from showing irritation. He could draw his wand on them, but a well placed blow to the side of his head could be the end of it, and they were in a confined space.

The pain wasn't good, and it made him think all the more about snapping the man's neck.

Suddenly the slight of a boy wriggled free, and from what Ignan could tell, kicked the shin of the one who was poking at his wound.

Hell broke loose for a moment and Ignan looked round to ensure he wasn't in the firing line, managing to ease his hand to his side with his newly replaced arm, his wand hand to his boot, weight slipping from where he sat to be ready to get out.

Then the door opened and some order fell about the place again - the man who he had addressed at the campfire entered, and the child slipped over to him. The two men were dismissed swiftly, and at the old woman's return, Ignan settled his weight back again and obliged to let her tend to the wound.

"Are you in much pain, Mon Ami?" The man asked, drawing closer, the young boy also there, all three of them staring at his side. It was enough to make Ignan look down, curious if there was something crawling out of him.

"Don't you have something that will make this easier?"

"Magic, you mean." Ignan replied quietly, but his voice firm enough. "Yes, but I am no healer. If I could have got to one who was, I would have." He looked at the dark haired man, and then slowly drew his wand from his boot, not taking his gaze away from the group to gauge the risk.

"Lenio Dolor Doleo Subvenio." He raised his wand to his head and moved it back and forth as he spoke the incantation, descending down his torso, feeling the pain lessen like a candle diminishing.

"I can stop the wound from bleeding, but not for long." He explained, lowering his gaze to the old woman, "That is why I need your help." With a pause of confirmation, he raised his wand again, twisting for better examination of his side, the afflicted part being beneath his wand arm.

"Staima."

A brief sparkle and the blood stopped oozing out of his side but looped back in on itself in small bubbles of blood. Casting the two spells, despite the pain relief it gave, had made him lightheaded and he put his recently dislocated arm out to steady himself and did no enjoy the jolt of pain through the swollen shoulder - shown on his face with gritted teeth and the increasingly grey colour of his skin.