Dragoncrest Cliffs i gotta get mine, i gotta get it

Several days had gone by in the aftermath of Verx’s ruby-throated arrival, and in that time the herbalist had only ever let one other kru help her, whether it was Rose or Dacio or some other; anyone who was available, not yet taken by their own heedings. The bathing and cleaning, the dressing and undressing, the situating and the propping-upping, and the watering and even the feeding — these were what was most immediate in the days since his collapse.

These prospects would be as immediate as need-be, and this was the myriad of her mind as she returned to her apothecary, the spring sunlight bringing out bits of muted, old blood. She hadn’t quite been able to give herself a good grooming — and with this belly, how would she ever have the means to reach by herself? With a quiet, weary groan at the ache in her back, she turned from Verx’s slumbering form to resume inspection of her stores.

As the cheka roused, that porcelain, hunched back remained turned to him, as it had been each moment since that devastating evening; taut musculature hummed ivory beneath a wilting ruff as she pores over her most insistent tenant’s needs. Her thoughts had been nothing but of which dressings would be suitable, and how fast would they hold? What of her stores was Stormborn depleting the most? Where should she shift her attentions to next? So up until his roar of agony and chagrin, only an ear had curved back to listen, as if the rest of her was steeped in earthly concentration.

But then she felt a plaintive herald in her blood, and she shivered back to the present, whirled about — and before a film of hot tears could gloss over entirely spent, argent eyes,  she hustled on over, snipping up a wad of drenched moss along the way. That soothing, hushing part of her had withdrawn. In its place was only diligence and instruction; but for him, forever and only for him, there remained something tender in her voice, now worn. 

”Settle,” she murmured, her low voice brooking for no arguement — but abysmally more gentle than which she’d subjected Rose and Blodreina to. ”Thrash about as you are, and you will turn my dressing to ribbons, solider.” A curl of her lips was there, lurking just beneath her guise of pale perseverance, but she refrained from letting it come to fruition.

Regardless, she reclined alongside him into a sit, hocks akimbo to accommodate for the swell of her budding belly. The backs of one of her snowshoe paws cusped at the inked cheekbone closest to loam; coaxing, supporting. ”Drink what you can — slowly.” The sodden wad of moss was then brought to his curled lips. Her starlit gaze glimpsed into the blue of his own, meeting that fire with her own molten make; softening just a fragment.