Seanan had not strayed far from the Blood Falls of late.  He had lingered on the edges, where the trees were thinner.  Though he didn't particularly like it, he had some strange reluctance to stray far that he could not name.  Perhaps it was a loss of purpose, as all the threads ran dry.  Perhaps it was delaying the inevitable.  Avoiding facing his ghosts.  

As it is, he is startled from his grazing by a familiar young deer's arrival.  The star-scattered black companion was usually in the keeping of Ashamin, from Seanan's understanding, so he lifts his head to look for the painted stallion.  Nothing.  Instead the dark creature seems to demand his attention, and finally the white stallion is goaded into motion.  He follows Lochan somewhat reluctantly into the crimson drenched woods.  He does not like being summoned.  He did not agree to pay fealty.

And yet as unexplainable as his reluctance to leave the area is a strange compulsion to answer Ashamin's summons.  In the end, he is a dutiful creature.  They do not travel long before he catches the scent of Ashamin, a stranger, and sickness.  His body recoils and he plants his hooves, ears laid back as the scent of infection seems to surge up his wide nostrils and force it's way into his lungs.  His stomach clenches.  His muscles quiver.

He turns and his legs extend to gain what speed he can through the tight packed trees.  It is on the edge he finds the little bower he has begun to make for himself in a little clearing edges by brush.  There he gathers a few things onto a pile of large flat leaves- white roots, golden flowers, more broad green leaves.  He gathers it into a bundle as best he can and seizes it between hard white teeth.  Then Seanan returns to the Falls themselves.  The scent does not give him pause this time, and he spares only a glance to Ashamin before he approaches the stranger and sets down the bundle next to him.  

It's the closest he has ever voluntarily approached a body outside of battle.

"My name is Seanan, may I treat your wound?" His voice is oddly formal, almost ritual.  He would not touch this stranger without permission, much as he would not himself accept touch without such a request.  His rose colored eyes briefly try to meet Ryouta's, then are drawn away, trying to see the wound that so fouled the air.  He was glad they were at the pool.  It would make cleaning it easier.