Rude, aren't you?

        If the words offend, Caneo shows no outward sign of it. A low, musical hum thrums in his throat at the muted fuck off, though his toes dance beyond the range of potential bites. Wounded things do lash out, sometimes. Unfortunately for the both of them, Caneo learned this knowledge at the heels of something other than a healer. He can't fix the wound. He doesn't feel like ending the other man's life, either. But will it live long enough to see him back to the Throat? Will he be able to find it upon return? And why should he bother, all that walking...?

        Still lost in thought when the creature hastens to its feet, Caneo hesitates, surprised written clearly on his narrow features. "O." Quickly, bemusement melts into amusement. "Good job standing up!" he chirps. A handful of new options present themselves to his thinking mind. He has no opportunity to choose one, though, because a moment later something breaks out of the trees like a whirlwind, all feathers and black hair. A she, he notices, before she goes.

        And returns.

        She hurls something at the wounded's feet and Caneo senses the moment wheeling beyond his control. He surrenders; steps back. In the meantime, the cool lights of his eyes center on the mare. How long had she been hiding? Why had he allowed himself to fail in noticing until she stepped forward? He ought to pay more attention; Helovia's softness dims his senses a little more every day, and now he itches again. The serpent runs over herself through the sparse hairs of his mane. They both want, somehow, to return to the dark. To have never come. Caneo always wants this when he bothers to interact.

        So he's pretty quiet even when a third creature makes an appearance, flanked by two maybe-deer and clearly.... of another level than anyone else assembled. There's no mistaking the weight of his stride, the intelligence in his eyes. Caneo lets his eyes fall in silence down the limp, crooked line of the stranger's horn. At the same time, the silver creature is well aware of the berth granted himself and his own companion. He does not acknowledge this aloud, but he does think on the meaning of it. On the particular look and taste of fear.

        His long face turns again when the wounded thing speaks at last. "Well —" It was cruel of them, wasn't it, to keep talking while it stood there full of pain? "Good luck to whichever one of you decides to carry him home," he offers cheerfully. "I don't know if anyone in the Dragon's Throat would take a warrior laid low by a cut like that." And here he begins to step away, contenting himself with the slivers of knowledge he's been thrown, the names of these new creatures and the relief that he, alone, need not play nursemaid to the ungrateful man.