Lyle burst through the doors of the dimly lit and dull looking clinic. His breath had begun to draw out raggedly and he found his eyesight fading, he was losing too much blood and was slowly falling into the danger zone. To his left sat some obscure citizens in rags, most likely bums off the street looking for a place to sleep. He heard coughing and the low murmur of someone praying; the place held a thick stench of sickness. At the gray desk sat a blonde woman, who jumped as he entered and nervously eyed him as he surveyed the room; her hands firmly folded in her lap she watched him. Tensely he made his way toward her,

"Alright, doll-" he grumbled through gritted teeth, "help a sorry soul out and grab me some pain meds from the back. And while you're at it get me some bandages- you're going to patch me up." She began to protest but upon seeing his eyes glint along with the fangs which protruded from his mouth, she quickly stood and followed his directions.

Moments later he emerged from the clinic; head held high and feeling much better. His coat pockets sang with a weeks worth of pills and as he made his way down the street he pulled up his hood. Now that his shoulder was taken care of he had more important things to think of; revenge on the bastards that did this to him. He made a mental note to relocate his home while he was at it; clinic ransacking was most likely common in such gang run parts of town. He slunk his way into the shadows of a nearby alleyway and tried to remember exactly where he was when he was attacked. He was sure that it was a gang of werewolves; a little asking around could help him out there. Lyle knew that the mannerisms of lycanthropes drew them toward brawling and the like; he set his course for the nearest pub in town, The Hags Head.