The smell of blood at least snaps him back into the present. "Sit down." He grabs a first aid kit. He can do something useful, thank God.
"It's happened before. Not this, specifically, but..." A muscle in his jaw flexes. "I should have been able to see this one coming. Show me where you're injured."
He quirks a brow but figures that Lark might have some future knowledge of healing that he's not privy too. What can it hurt to get a second opinion?
So Trevor sits, although he mostly slides down, because bending over in any way would cause him to start bleeding again. It's not as bad as he thinks it should be, and chalks that up to the strange necromancer healing powers of the boat.
"You read the future now? I'm going to have to watch myself." He jokes. Trevor isn't wearing the only shirt Lark's ever seen him in - that got ripped to hell and bloodied after, and he's more upset about that than he is about his injuries. Thankfully in 101 he found a button-up shirt that meant he didn't have to pull on his injuries too much.
He unbuttons his shirt, where he's wrapped bandages carefully around himself from navel to clavicle. It does a decent job of keeping the blood in, but there's definitely been spotting, and he's reluctant to unwrap those bandages because it'll pull where they stuck to the wound with sticky, dried blood.
Lark takes the bandages--carefully--then cleans the wounds, then rebandages them with the expertise of someone who has a medically trained X5 overseeing his training.
Trevor watches with rapt attention, so he knows how to do this for next time. The cuts are deep, and ritualistic in nature; he's been carved up with symbols, and probably could use a lot of stitches. But there wasn't time, and he didn't really know how to reach the infirmary without bumping into yet another nightmare scenario. As he goes to take off his shirt entirely, Lark might catch a glimpse of red marks on his wrists - he'd been shackled down - and a litany of far older, pre-Barge scars from a lifetime of vampire hunting.
He grunts a little when the bandages are pulled off, and even as careful as Lark is, some congealed blood pools at the surface of them.
"Well, it all started when I was a kid who kept falling out of trees..."
"Was it John Seed?" It could be anyone. It could have been in any domain. Even knowing who caused it won't help; Lark can't do anything about it except for this.
What he really wants is just to keep Trevor talking so he has something to listen to while he works.
"Well, if you feel like evening the score..." Lark won't stop him. "I already told Tim to shake your hand if you do. I know I should be encouraging forgiveness but, frankly, that shit doesn't work in wolf packs and it might work here but I don't have it in me."
"Truth be told, I really just want to deck him across the face a few times." He shrugs a little, and starts to stand up, carefully.
"I don't kill people who don't kill, and this wasn't killing." He gestures to himself. "And I don't....that was torture. Hunters aren't supposed to torture. Plus, if I kill the rotten little bastard, he gets to feel like he's the victim. I think if I make him think he's going to be tortured, that's much better. Or worse."
A happy little shrug.
"Whatever. He's a fuck-off monster and I'm going to burn down everything he loves. It's fine."
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"It's happened before. Not this, specifically, but..." A muscle in his jaw flexes. "I should have been able to see this one coming. Show me where you're injured."
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So Trevor sits, although he mostly slides down, because bending over in any way would cause him to start bleeding again. It's not as bad as he thinks it should be, and chalks that up to the strange necromancer healing powers of the boat.
"You read the future now? I'm going to have to watch myself." He jokes. Trevor isn't wearing the only shirt Lark's ever seen him in - that got ripped to hell and bloodied after, and he's more upset about that than he is about his injuries. Thankfully in 101 he found a button-up shirt that meant he didn't have to pull on his injuries too much.
He unbuttons his shirt, where he's wrapped bandages carefully around himself from navel to clavicle. It does a decent job of keeping the blood in, but there's definitely been spotting, and he's reluctant to unwrap those bandages because it'll pull where they stuck to the wound with sticky, dried blood.
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"How'd you get hurt?"
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He grunts a little when the bandages are pulled off, and even as careful as Lark is, some congealed blood pools at the surface of them.
"Well, it all started when I was a kid who kept falling out of trees..."
He grins, trailing off.
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What he really wants is just to keep Trevor talking so he has something to listen to while he works.
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He sounds weirdly proud of himself.
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"I don't kill people who don't kill, and this wasn't killing." He gestures to himself. "And I don't....that was torture. Hunters aren't supposed to torture. Plus, if I kill the rotten little bastard, he gets to feel like he's the victim. I think if I make him think he's going to be tortured, that's much better. Or worse."
A happy little shrug.
"Whatever. He's a fuck-off monster and I'm going to burn down everything he loves. It's fine."
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"Well, keep me in the loop anyway."
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"You're a man among wolves, Lark."
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"Heard you the first time. Fucking mother wolf."