Lost Creek Hollow a shell of frozen time

He'd plan to come looking for him? That certainly tossed any notion that he would be spending his time to himself, though reasonably one could have deigned he'd thrown that out the moment he had set off after Rannoch to begin with. His ears turned forward to better receive queries and comments alike, and his gaze wandered over the mending flesh. Whether or not he didn't have time was regardless—he did not shy away from his duties, self-imposed or not, and delved into silence when the space between them no longer mattered.

"The travel has lent it some aggravation," he answered, "which was anticipated, but I sense no infection lingering." It was healing at its own pace, as many things in the world did. Nothing foul by sight or smell offended him.

He continued, his sharp gaze lifting to meet that of the mountainous wolf.

"How does it feel? Stiff, burning—or perhaps numb?" He had never quite been able to answer the matter of whether or not Rannoch would ever lose the hitch in his gait, but it too worried at the edges of his questioning. One thing could have easily meant another, and a moment too late could not be salvaged by all the mortar-and-pestle teeth in his mouth to make crude medicine.

Which thankfully, they were beyond the point of needing to pack ground up plant matter into grave wounds.