Arrow Lake we are the ones who will never be broken

When the blood ran less from his shoulder, she removed the dressings, eyeing the wound and humming softly to herself thoughtfully. She drifted further from him, plucking some of the last of the marigolds she had found in the area—thankfully, this time, she had some on hand for the soldier.

As she made a paste with it, she listened to him discuss the possible reasonings for the unintended shun to her pack—or the break of their bond. She noted how highly he spoke of the Lady Aquene, vaguely beginning to piece together an assumption that perhaps the two were a couple—and then trying not to fret that she would not be able to heal the man’s wounds and scars nearly as well as perhaps his assumed lover.

She took the paste, striding back to him swiftly before she placed a paw to his side, steadying him before she lowered her muzzle, smoothing the healing poultice she had prepared. With her mouth free, she gave a non-committal shrug of her shoulders and a gentle shake of her head. “So you’re saying they’re arguing over her like she’s a goat or something.” Meadow had a lot to learn about tact.

She then took more moss and web, her eyes surveying Reyson softly, pausing before she began to dab at his facial wounds. “We should stop meeting like this,” she mused, hoping to lighten the situation.