Hoshor Plains And besides in the mean-meantime I'm just dreaming of tearing you apart

Was your dad a healer? She questions with a fair flicker of intrigue as she begins to get to work preparing the poultice. There was no room to waste such a rare medicine, and so she'd opt to mince it with teeth and saliva, spitting out the mixture onto one of the maple leaves she'd brought along. Mmm. Spit paste. What a treat.

And of course he wouldn't take anything for the pain. Ah well, that part at least was of less concern to her, although she admittedly would've liked to see him knocked off his rockers from the sage. His mention of bad things lead her to draw a conclusion that something of the sort had happened before. What sort of bad thing could happen out here? Life's been fairly mellow for us all lately. Most you'd do is take a long ass nap at the homestead. Unless you just don' want Arktos seein' you slack...

She'd let him move, adjust himself to wherever he wished to be, heeding the gentle growl that rumbled in his ravaged throat and waiting. Once he found himself comfortable, she would hunker down onto her belly, facing him and applying the poultice to the tear as they spoke. She was close, uncomfortably so, and yet the realization had no place in her gaze. She was at work, after all, and if anything could so accurately capture her attention, it was this very thing.

The bleeding slowed to a mere trickle, which she took as the opportunity to fully engorge the wound in this paste. Leave it there a couple days. It'll dry, get stuck to the fur, protect the wound for the time bein'. It can be washed off when I say so. She barked a command, one tattered ear flicking.