The Sunspire he held my hands above my head and i commenced to pray

go on then, her packmate grunts. praimfaya watches as his muscles tense beneath his earthen brown pelage; pulling taunt with what she can only assume is an attempt to brace himself for the pain that may or may not come. his words inspire in her mind a more morbid scenario. it sounds like words before an accepted death rather than the slather of medicines upon a wound. she smirks softly to herself, trying to hide the grimace that follows shortly after.

it does not escape her notice that trying to heal riley seems like a contradiction to her entire reason for joining the saints. it seems counterproductive and yet, she slathers the salve upon his wound anyway.

it's messy, as predicted; the act of dressing a wound striking her as intimate in a way that makes her want to recoil back. as a non-medic, she doesn't see things unbiasedly. she is not desensitized. she smears it as evenly over his wound as she can with the tip of her nose; recoiling back slightly to peer at her handiwork. there, praimfaya announces after it's finished. see? that wasn't so bad. she teases.