Grouse Thicket Where the wild things are.

there is no expression on her face to distract him; the word she uses is a familiar one, though it takes a moment to place. as with everything of, well – of the days before he…was like this – to recall these things is a dangerous proposition, but this is a memory that does not hold nearly that much weight. the aftermath of injury is much easier to bear.

“ah. you are a healer?” caligula returns his ice-pale gaze to the plants underfoot, though it continues shifting anxiously between them and the stranger. “then, i am…sorry, about,” his muzzle tips down, indicating some of the crushed shoots, “…what is this? here?”

the following question is not so easy to formulate a response to. “oh. that is…” voice trailing off into nothing, he hesitates. he has given too much out already; he does not think he needs his own words to clarify that all of his, ah, problems are entirely in his own head. for now. the raw scar on his chest, no matter its appearance, is no longer a threat.

the sentence picks, stutteringly, back up, as though it had never stopped. “…it is…this is not a problem. but. thank you.”