Dragoncrest Cliffs up in arms, it's just the god of thinning dreams,

As she stepped closer, Dacio eyed her with quiet suspicion. Never before had he suffered such a wound, and where Portia had expertly tended the minor cuts attained during scuffles with his litter-mates and unfortunate encounters with bramble bushes, he didn't know how careful this wolfess would be. He was not aware how painful her ministrations might be.

Still, he braced himself, and winced againsts the discomfort of her mouth as it began working on his damaged hide. Gritting his teeth, his hackles lifted instinctively as he fought the desire to clack his fangs and shoo her away. It's for the best, he was sure to remind himself, nostrils flaring at the pungent aroma of hiw own stale blood and pus. Twitching a lip, he wondered how wolves could stick their noses into the rotten wounds of others and not want to retch.

"I once thought the same," Dacio said of war, glad for the distraction from the pain, and followed her with his pale gaze as she set about chewing at something. He found himself wondering how others could remember all the different ingredients that went into making these things, having preferred to direct his focus toward becoming a warrior instead of a healer. It was unfortunate than none of Portia's children were fit to follow in her pawsteps. "What is this?" Dacio asked when the pallid female was done packing his rotten bite wound. "What does it do?"