Fairspell Meadow the sound of silence

For some reason, perhaps a child's instinct to trust their mother, he believed her. He calmed, but drew his forepaws tight to his chest and tucked his tail as she started to lick his face. He still quivered under her caresses, for each lick seared him, so raw and painful were his wounds. She spoke again, asking for his help, asking him to draw on what he knew about injuries and the plants to mend them with.

He shook his head and whispered a defeated, "I can't," but medicinal knowledge was akin to instinct for him, and with his mother's prompt, it soon surged to fore. "Horsetail," he gurgled, but then he cleared his throat, and spoke with a calm confidence that was unlike the frightened toddler of a moment ago. "And cobweb for the cuts. Black sage for pain."