Jade Fern Grove his heart was trapped in a cage

brisbane moves with purpose to each heavy footfall that draws him ever closer to his goal. it's in sight now and he can almost taste the fresh creek water; the trickling of the water as it moves it's progression through the grove works to distract him so that his focus is so singular upon the promise of a fresh drink he does not hear the sound of uneven trot until a streak of brown emerges from out of the emerald foliage, cutting him off and forcing him to come to an abrupt halt. there is a very brief moment where brisbane is perplexed, brain rapidly attempting to make sense of facts: another wolf and not a predator — his hackles lower from their instinctual bristle —, female, injured — noted as she pauses and offers him a hello.

hello. he parrots her greeting, smoky timbre forming the words in his accent. he surmises quickly that she, too, is making a beeline for the creek and he gestures with a small sweep of his muzzle for her to go ahead of him. it wasn't like the creek didn't have enough water for the both of them. brisbane moves to the bank of the creek, sparing her another glimpse from the corner of his eye, wondering if he should offer to take a look whatever exposed wound she had that smelled like it was getting an infection. he wasn't any sort of master healer but his mother'd been into botany ( perhaps it was that which attracted the witchdoctor to her in the first place ) and she'd taught him a thing or two that proved useful in helping to patch up his siblings when they came home looking worse for wear.

i could take a look at that wound for ya, if you'd like, he offers, gentleman enough not to point out that he's caught fish that smelled better.