Dawnlark Plains Got no time to waste, I'm already late

In the short space between touching Midar's wound and registering his snarl, he remembers exactly how afraid he is of the man. It doesn't stop the low, agitated rumble in his own throat, nor does it stop him from resuming his cleaning when he's certain there won't be much more protest, but he feels the cold tingle in his chest and he has to acknowledge it. This is a man who could kill him — who would have, maybe, without a second thought had they met under different circumstances. And here he is, prodding his wounds.
When he's finished cleaning them, he leans down to take the roots in his mouth and starts to chew them. His muzzle wrinkles at the taste, and before long he can hardly stand to chew it anymore. Hold still, He mumbles around the gross plant paste, spitting it onto his wounds bit by bit. He spreads it with his nose, keeping his touches feather-light and trying to ignore the grossness of it all. Nevermind the fact that he can't stand the smell of blood.