Larksong Grotto Ankärr

Did she dread to see him rise? Or was it a relief? Truthfully, Ayovi does not know as she watches the wild man founder through the wood, intrigued to see him return to make a paste, though his offer for her paws falls on deaf ears. It would have been easy for her to turn away from him then, if not for the smell. Ayovi was a woman who could swallow pride and fear long enough to get things done.
“Let me help,” she doesn’t know why she says it. He won't understand her.
Careful steps approach him, a face veiling fear. The mere action might bait the wildling, but Ayovi is confident, or otherwise foolish enough, to believe he has little left stowed of strength.
Close, now, and for the first time she has a clear enough look at the man. He is broad, with a prominent jaw and a cut like neither Wide Fang nor Ashēer. Tight glances volley between the bloodied mouth and the draining slash on his belly.
“No tricks— or I’ll finish you myself,” Ayovi’s voice is a sharp rouse, bordering on fearsome. She lifts a paw to his tender flesh, flicking to watch for a mal reaction. Then she braces the second against his wound, hesitating for a breath before pushing to expel the foul green matter from his side.