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Summary
And, Monoco thinks, no trace of his wings.
They're still there of course, just hidden away under that jacket of his. In the last several hours, Monoco hasn't seen him without the damned thing pulled tightly around his shoulders. Even now, as the other four humans huddle together and preen, Verso keeps his wings hidden.
His wings are messy, knowing Verso. Feathers sticking up in all directions and full of all kinds of debris. The jacket would shield them from some of it, of course. Before he'd gotten it, Monoco remembers picking out sticks and stones and gore, far too much gore. Monoco has spent hours, if not days, cleaning the blood from Verso's feathers, because Maker knows the fool won't do it himself.
Many things would be easier if Verso took care of himself, Monoco thinks, and it's not for the first time. It's probably not for the tenth, or the hundreth time, either. Gestrals were not made to worry, but his human does not seem to realize that.
--day three of verso hell weekprompt: filth
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