His arm still throbbed, especially now that he was in the cold and open air; he wondered whether or not it felt as bad as it might have were he not used to the chill of his own powers. He had found that he could tolerate lower temperatures than he was capable of before, at the very least. Still, there wasn't a way to check, and the dull pain in the limb bound in plaster and hanging in a sling at his side only reminded him of what he'd come to take care of.

Edgeworth had chosen to get treatment the normal way--the Muggle way, as Remus would have no doubt said--even though it had meant he would be minus the use of that arm for some weeks longer than would have been the case with the healers' arts. It made a very visible point, and would continue to do so until at least the next full moon. If the need arose sometime later, he could have one of the metahumans finish fixing it, but he rather doubted that.

Still, he wasn't entirely stupid; he had never found out exactly when the moon liked to let up on its hold over the wizard, and consequently, had a series of thick plates floating around him as he walked. If he was attacked, it would only be a moment to change their form and encase the assailant in blocks of bluish-white, allowing him time enough to flee if need be.

That was his plan, anyway. It was clear from the familiar thin sword in his gloved grip that he'd taken other precautions, just in case.

If only his senses were as good as those belonging to Remus. Hunting someone down in a wide forest was not easy to begin with, and a little more difficult when one had not slept on top of that.

Edgeworth peered around, trying to catch sight of the other, idly wondering if he should have brought some kind of binoculars.