Wheeling Gull Isle poking a voodoo doll you didn't know i made

mou does not acknowledge her scolding and she titters at him, a scornful red bird pecking 'round his feet. but she does not move to stop him, only watching with an unamused stare as he continues to try, until, naturally, he finally tires himself out. she does her best not to look smug, but if a little superiority shines in her seaglass eyes, well. who can blame her?

"i told you," she tells him, moving to his side to run her nose gently across his side, feeling for the mending ribs. there is more weight on him than when they started -- nowhere near ideal, but she can feel it -- which she'll take as a boon for now, even if those bones continue to mend at a snail's pace. at length she steps back, taking a sphinx like position up in front of him, ears tipped up. "so you can't walk," reed says, "we can try something else. speech, perhaps?" her patient is still silent, the ugly gash across his throat knitting back into a mass of scar tissue. she has heard his soft squeaks and whines, and thinks of honey, perhaps -- though she doesn't have any... perhaps her and maegi could go find some. another time.