His eyes drift up to the sound of heavy hooves approaching and for a moment the old stallions emerald gaze remains soft, remembering the ebony stallion - Mortuus Nox – and the surprise of his kindness when he’d offered to help create a fire pit in the old stallions cave months earlier, but as the thought nears completion he remembers too that no such promise was ever fulfilled. Still, the deep voice offers assistance and tosses a familiar, knotted root toward his head. He takes the ginger with enthusiasm, tucking it into one cheek and grinding his teeth against it slowly, prolonging the flavor and hopefully its effect on his senses.

One ear cocks backward in response to the other stallions tone - not quite indifferent, but certainly with a hint of exasperation, as if the old bastard has no right to exhibit signs of pain when already the seriousness of his situation has been aired around them. Colic. Twisted guts. His temper flashes quickly across his face, but before the scowl can fall fully into place it dissolves again, tamped out by the weight of oppressive discomfort. So he heaves a sigh instead and folds his legs neatly beneath him, unwilling to go so far as rising and walking anywhere, but intelligent enough to know that he shouldn’t ignore the Medics advice. He stills, resting his bearded chin on the ground, jaw still working slowly at the herb in his cheek.

And then Lena, the Time Mender, the Songbird, the one who might as well be his personal guardian angel at this point, kneels down over his clenching midriff with magic on her lips and tongue, relief winding somehow through his ears and into his bloodstream, surging down and in until it meets with the places that hurt, that twist, and slowly teases them loose with infinitely gentle, determined tugs. He remains quiet beneath her, both respectful of and desperate for her magic, truly believing it his salvation, and when the notes drift away to silence he turns his head, made complaisant by the sudden absence of pain and heat, seeking to touch, to thank, but then drawing away, remembering the state of himself and the presence of judging eyes nearby.

“Better.” He rumbles, staring down at his knobby knees. His companion rolls himself over, instantly rejuvenated by his bondeds improved state and seeking his usual shelter either among the base of the stallions backswept horns or within the folds of his scarf, nosing around his legs and chest like some lost appendage trying to reattach itself. The black cracks the smallest of smiles and then looks up, caught off guard by the Menders question. His ears flick forward and back and his eyes waver between mare and stallion as if struggling to gauge the quality of the question. Is this an admonishment? He wonders. A trick to belittle him? Or is it simply something he should know that he doesn’t because he’s never had to fully care for himself? His brows furrow, untrusting. "No." He states simply, bracing for whatever ridicule may come.



"Talk."
OOC // @Lena @Mortuus Nox