A brief air of surprise hits Saoirse, when his companion admits she doesn’t want her mother. He glances away with a slight frown, realizing then that perhaps mothers weren’t all the same. That the ideal he carried in his head conflicted with what really happened out there in the world. And when things like that did happen; absent mothers, was it someone’s job to notice them and do something about it?

While he began to feel a loathing for the colts and fillies who still had their families – from wholes to fragments – he wondered if it mattered at all in the first place. And felt fiercely reminded of the feeling of being loved, and how wholesome and alive it was. To be without something like that, felt… wrong to the boy.

Deciding to leave that topic, he’s happy to see that the filly is following his lead. Ushering a brighter grin and eyes that are eager for the task at hand. “Maybe? I mean… burns cause damage to your skin. Right? Why can’t it help with flesh wounds too? They’re part of your skin.” He shrugs with his wings.

It’s a guess, and it makes… sense to him. Given his limited knowledge, it’s a shot in the dark. He keeps his lips pressed however, not wanting to give into his doubts just yet. Saoirse is eager to see what a healer might say about that, and doesn’t want to fuel his companion with the same doubts.

Saoirse starts them towards the church, to the large spire that hovers in the landscape. Vaguely certain that it was the most likely of places for a healer to store their goods, and maybe – if they waited around long enough, one of them would show up. It wasn’t the best plan, but he wasn’t sure how else to summon them. For safe measure, he belts out quite suddenly; “HEALERRRRS! ANY HEALERS OUT HERE?! NAJYA?!”

It takes the boy a moment to recover his voice. Taking in a few breathy inhales. As for the root and its pain numbing properties, “Ahm… It was found in the… the Spectral Marsh – when I used it. Not sure if that’s the best place to go looking for it, though.” His voice wavers slightly, as he keeps his gaze ahead. Would he be able to make his way there, if no other lands offered the root? He glanced back at the scar-ridden filly as she spoke once more. The foreign word allows the boy to emit an unexpected laugh. “A what?”

With a brash snort he shook his head. “No… I’m Saoirse,” he pronounced it as SEER-sha, lifting his head with a rare swell of pride against his chest. And a momentary, silent, ‘hur-ah!’ of joy that she’d asked him his name.

“What about you? What's your name?” He added quickly. The boy’s gusto dissolved, and was replaced with hastened curiosity.