Honeyed Pasture and the gulls gave me my singing voice

his greeting prompts a joyless smile and a dipped head, tempering tadashi’s cheer all the more. he lowers his own head in a dutiful greeting, partly the dredged remains of nigh-lost habitus—how long it’s been since he bowed among the empire’s subjects!—and partly to get a better look at his patient.

yes, his patient, it’s decided in mind if nowhere else, certain as the rain falls. facial wounds suggest a fight for dominance; the neck, an intent to kill. a frown tugs at the corner of tadashi’s lip. the small wolf’s image thus far is that of a polite if distant follower; his dismissive non-answer, citing “misunderstanding,” is but seafoam on a tide.

who would do such a thing? are the wolves here, too, prone to such horrific cruelty?

no matter. curiosity comes second; tadashi has a job. he offers a sympathetic nod and lifts his head again, scanning the grass. naturally, he can’t see—anything, nothing of use. his eyebrows furrow; flooding might dilute herbs’ use, but it pains him to stand here doing nothing.

with a gentle, questioning smile, tadashi turns back to the bright-eyed wolf. “what a misunderstanding.” he takes a chance on familiarity; the accent has not escaped tadashi’s attention. it isn’t quite japanese, but hardly local—a fellow weary traveler, then? more than enough cause for empathy either way.

still, should the language go unrecognized, tadashi takes a moment to recall common tongue and adds, “is anyone treating you? you need rest.” small, affirmative nod; it’s the only command he’s ever been confident giving. “and shelter.” away from those who’d make it worse. he’s tempted to ask if any has been found, but that’s quite enough talk for his turn. it does a medic no good to speak over his patients.