Again the ocean mare ignores his ire, offering aid with a gentle, all-encompassing smile. The hard lines of the blacks face soften – just a touch – and his ears tip forward in anticipation of receiving something from the secret stash of herbs he knows is hidden beneath her mane, but instead of extending flowers or roots as answer to his complaint it’s an assessment and an idea that she proffers. "A splint?” He asks, glancing back at the limb in question to make sure it hasn’t deteriorated or taken on some dramatic appearance of poor health since last he’d last bothered to check it. “I don’t think it’s broken…” He trails, unsure of any other use for splinting yet fully aware of his own ignorance on the subject, doubt and concern evident in the waver of his voice. Does she think it could be?

So concerning is the thought that he doesn’t notice at first how the Songbird wanders closer, doesn’t hear the low hum thrumming under her breath through the buzz of conversation around him. It’s only later, when the gradual sensation of cooling and loosening has run its course through the inflamed tendons and ligaments of his leg and the natural heat of fibers working to knit together again begins to rise on his skin that he turns to find her, sure that there had been a familiarity in the ebb of discomfort, but by then the bay mare has moved her attention elsewhere, her face as sweet and unassuming as any angelic depiction. His brows furrow, but he says nothing, turning his attention back to Mortuus Nox and the strong scented paste he offers.

He steps up to inspect the crushed leaves as the latin Mender launches into a lengthy explanation of poisons, one ear turned to catch as much information as possible while the other stays pointed toward the little mash of peppermint. He inhales, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering scent and sensation of cold that washes through his lungs and sinuses, shooting an accusatory glance toward the Candycorn, as if everything in the world that shares this scent is somehow connected to him.

The black snorts, trying to ease the sense of tingling in his throat, pinches his nostrils shut, and scoops the paste onto his puckered upper lip to transfer to his suspiciously-less-painful-than-it-was-before leg, smearing it downward from hock to fetlock, outside first and then inside, contorting himself to reach it amid a new chorus of snaps, crackles, and pops that are probably doing as much harm as the peppermint is good. He groans. Old age is a bitch.



"Talk."
OOC // @Mortuus Nox @Tiamat Also mentions Lena and Johnny, but not enough for me to bother you with tags!

Albrecht

You take a hit now, You feel it break down,
Make you stay wide awake, this is how a heart breaks.