He doesn’t want to feel the heat of embarrassment burning beneath the skin of his grizzled, angular face or the loneliness and need swirling into a vacuum of emotional deficiency somewhere between the narrow spring of his ribcage, but he can't stop the sensations from coming in response to the candy-corn’s emotionally charged comments about only sort of dying and the uneasy implications of receiving an apology at this particular moment. His usual self-defense mechanisms of irritability and scorn sit unresponsive at the back of his throat, still unwilling to lash out at the only creature in existence that - having met him at least once - actually gives half a fuck whether he lives or dies.

So instead he focuses on the less serious, ‘Trampling through the forest swearing up a storm,’ remark, which is a hell of lot more accurate than the Weaver probably thinks. “And who would I be then?” He asks quietly, as much to himself as to the Weaver or the cream colored mare beside him, now offering her own modest apology. Accustomed to the Basin's population of easily angered and quick to retaliate warrior personalities, the smallness and submissiveness of the mare's voice draws his eyes upward. He barely has time to do more than glance at her though, catch a hint of the blue gradient of her body that deepens to a rich cerulean around her legs and at the ends of her mane and tail, before another body comes rushing in, sweeping an educated eye across the disarray of his fallen form and folding herself down on the bed of pine needles beside him.

Unfamiliar with the bay mare, he bristles at her sudden proximity, head lifting on a stiffly upright neck to watch her warily, but the healer is undeterred, smiling a confident, knowing smile and parting her lips to begin her work - through song of all things.

At first he wonders if the mare seeks to sooth him through singing alone and he arches an incredulous brow, but as she fills her lungs and the notes swell from her tongue to his ears something undeniably supernatural takes hold of his aches and pains, the tightness in his haunches loosening and the heat and swelling of various hoof and teeth marks across his body draining away with the rise and fall of her voice. His ears slam forward in astonishment, eyes widening. The lower tier healers that he's met are knowledgeable, yes, but simple collectors of herbs and bark and other perfectly ordinary medicinal techniques. A magical healing is something new to him, the Songbird - since no one else is known to have such a power - demonstrating a unique and impressive ability.

As the healer works, the elder's ears flop loosely to either side, a sigh of relief crossing his lips. The only wound that resists her magic is the ugly gash and flap of skin across the point of his left shoulder. The torn edges strain toward one another across the gap, loosely knitting back together so that the grisly view of his naked musculature is covered, but the damaged bone beneath refuses to be hurried in its schedule of events, the deep, pulsating pain of the fracture continuing unabated even as the mare's healing melody draws to a close and her warm, chocolate eyes reopen.

He frowns slightly, disappointed for his own sake, but nods agreement to the bay’s question. He does feel better, still heavy with fatigue, but comfortable enough to actually rest now instead of simply drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The Weaver thanks the Healer, and she in turn suggests that he thank them all. His brows furrow at the mare's tone, a distinct edge of motherly expectation in the words, but he's so tired, so mentally drained, and all the hateful rhetoric dancing at the tip of his tongue just seems grossly out of place in this company of - friends? Acquaintances? He's only just met two of them and though he silently considers Johnny a friend, he doubts the Weaver would see his return of constant belittling, insulting, and general lack of affection as friendship - so instead he blandly mumbles to the assembly, “Thank you.”

He's not sure what to expect then, with the excitement of action over and done with, his life surely saved and his heroes appropriately thanked, but he has zero intention of struggling to his feet anytime soon, so exhaling slowly, he lays himself flat on the right side of his body again, this time infinitely more organized than the first. “The real hero here is Jellybean." He announces, eyelids slipping low, sure even without his sight that the little griffin will enjoy such praise. He imagines her puffing her tiny pink chest out with pride and a small smile begins to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Think she lost five pounds in all that running, though you couldn't tell."


OOC // Think he mixed up "making nice" with "making fat jokes" again. Oops. :P @Johnny @Zyanya @Lena