ode to the fallen (m)

Thistle moved quickly as Blood continued to drip from her husband's muzzle straight down to her own head. Staining her tawny fur with crimson, one of the wonderful joys of being woefully smaller than her husband. She did smile up at him impishly, I only speak the truth, I have never lied. She sighed then though and stepped backward away from his chest and side and studied his face. She wondered what she could do to stop the bleeding. I have to stop that bleeding, but it will be difficult.

She tilted her head and looked down trying to find something to use for it, but finding nothing. She wondered again at the muscle and sinew that clung to the eye, what should she do with it.