Bit by bit, he was healing. The smallest cuts caused by the wolf teeth and his own incessant stumbling had healed into black, hairless scars, the tender skin still itching on occasion. The majority of them would grow over with white hair in a couple of weeks. And the larger ones.. they had all scabbed over, and no longer teared up on a daily basis. He'd even had to do it on purpose sometimes, spending painful hours lifting the scabs off with Irma's help and icing his own blood and wounds, hoping for the water to cleanse it. It seemed like it had. The last of the angry, warm welts of infection had receded a day or so ago, leaving his body to focus on the real healing work. He still moved gingerly, because the broken skin stretched uncomfortably whenever he did, and he concluded that on top of having had a fever from the infection, he'd also come down with a regular cold. Because while the infection had gone, a mild fever still lingered, and his throat still felt raw.

So it was pleasant to linger in his corner of the glowing cave, either ignoring anyone who passed nearby or giving them the evil eye so they shoved off without approaching him. He did it as much for himself as for Irma, who threatened to kill anything that came close to the nest. Mauja still wasn't sure what the future had in store for them. She left the egg tangled up in his mane on a daily basis to hunt, but the better he became, the more certain he was that he'd have to start taking over that. And he was far from a good hunter. He was a horse, dammit.

And thus, he found himself slowly ambling through the room, testing his limits. Moving still made his head pound, though not as vehemently, but he could do no more than walk without gasping for air and sending his heart hammering. Which wasn't all that strange, considering the state he was in. So he kept to a walk, ambled along, and peered at the multitude of horses crowded into the sanctuary. It seemed that mostly everyone had made it, given the quantity of them. So how had they found out? Followed trails? Who had figured out that this was a safe place?

Why had he been left alone up there, and almost mauled to death? Not that he was bitter or resented them their safety—after all, Circuta had been up and about, trying to find stragglers—but it just seemed typical that he missed out on something vital. Sighing, he plodded along. Soon enough he'd be too well to justify sticking to himself. There were those he had to find. d'Artagnan. Ophelia. Loudmouth, Psyche, Faelene. Maybe even Brisa and Nyx, and.. even though he didn't know where he stood with the Basin, they were still his people. His ears fell back in frustration, and his eyes settled on a mare which happened to be in his path. She was incredibly thin, her gray skin hanging over a bony frame, witness that she'd been more muscled in the past. Her coat was matted, dull iron lined with sapphire in the queer lighting, hair pale with dark locks. Dapples covered her flanks like bruises. Fortunately for her own health, she'd found a patch of grass amidst the moss and glowing mushrooms, and was grazing furiously. Good for her.

Less good for her, was that she managed to stand directly in his way. So he had two options. Either he stopped, or he walked into her—the third, obvious choice of simply passing beside her didn't really exist at that moment. And knowing how awkward it was to walk into strangers, and not to mentioned how irritating to be walked into, he chose to stop, maybe five yards off. His black-rimmed ears flicked forward, and he watched her with a mild kind of curiosity.

Being sick sucked. It did strange things to your head.