Redhawk Caldera some day they will all be dead

He hadn't seen a badger or a bear, for that matter, though Caracal didn't mention this. He also summarily ignored the fact that he didn't actually know what he was doing. He only knew the very basics of wound care, which was to keep it clean. He just hoped it would be enough, because he truly wanted to help Vesper.

She offered up her muzzle with evident reluctance, which he noted with a puzzled furrow in his brow before shrugging it off and proceeding. "Hold still," he instructed quietly as he moved in to inspect the cut before applying careful pressure with his tongue. He kept trying to catch her eye—was he hurting her? Was he being too delicate?—but Vesper avidly refused to meet his gaze.

Taking the lack of flinching as a good sign, at least, Caracal bathed the cut thoroughly before telling her, "Maybe rinse it off in the water. It should help with any stinging." He then drew back, assessing his handiwork with a critical eye. Honestly, it looked redder than before.

Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a medic, though he was glad he'd tried. Caracal backed up a few more steps and took a seat, only to get back onto all fours and move toward the water again a moment later. He dipped his head down to take a drink, rinsing the slightly copper taste of her raw flesh out of his mouth. Then he sat back again.

"So you don't want me to tell anyone you pick fights with wolverines," he mused, rather apropos of nothing. Caracal's eyes sparkled. "What other bad-ass things do you get up to?" he couldn't help but wonder.