Bearclaw Valley remember me,

men. always acting like their wounds didn't hurt or weren't as important as they should have treated them.

she listened as he explained the cause of his injury, the corners of her mouth twitching with a bout of phantom pain brushing over her own shoulder. "do me a favor and at least get it looked at by someone with more medical experience than me?" she asked of him, head titling over with a motherly stare that could only be read as please.

"bearclaw can't lose it's best protector over an infected cut." she'd seen bloodshed and war. half the time is was not the injuries that took a life, but the disease and infection that festered in open wounds. she did not want him to suffer that fate over foolish disregard.