Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

the brute has so sense of personal space—something that irks the hjartvörður. but he does not voice a complaint; he takes advantage. worn, steady hands cupping the man's face, forcing his head to turn in whichever direction needed. not unkind, but not gentle. keen eyes narrowing, followed by a thoughtful hum. 

"infection," he murmured to himself. plain in the raise of angry, sore skin, the way pus modules were beginning to form on the gash. the early stages; an easy fix to prevent it from worsening. the wise teachings of white sylph echo in his mind. guiding him. 

hands drop. the man sits obediently; good. cicero was a patient man by all means, but he would not fight with a fussy wolf. "stay." he commanded, before he was slinking off again. 

he returned after a while with a bundle of herbs between teeth. gentle, as not to ruin their use. gentian root for the infection, stalks of goldenrod. setting them at his feet so he could crush the root into a usable poultice. 

the man either could not understand him or was mute. either way, that did not stop cicero from explaining himself, his methods. a habit, he supposes. 

"root to stave off infection." the poultice ready, he scooped it up to lather the man's wound. careful, steady hands work with efficiency that comes naturally. and when the wound was lathered, he stared expectantly up at the man, face unreadable. "you eat." 

nudging the root toward the man's maw.