The attention of Toulouse's ears were stolen by movement to his right, his tightened jaws snapping quickly in the direction of the grounded pegasus, a gilded fighter who was now conscious it seemed; conscious and moving. Yet another gruff exhale was expelled from his lungs, escaping in a a vibrant sound from his nares as he surveyed the scene.
The beast was dead, that much was obvious, though in truth this was of great inconvenience to the sleuth. Much could be learned from anyone subjected to the right kind of prodding and probing, especially when faced with justice in the harsher northern realm of the continent. A head full of knowledge and secrets lay leaking on the forest floor beneath him, and as a seasoned agent and thief, this could only caused the pale on to curl his nostrils in disgust and disappointment. What a waste. Some hard questioning by the thieves at the basin would have surely been beneficial to gain any and all information from the predator if he was a sentient one like the other creatures gathered; pegasus, equine and unicorn alike.

The footfalls of another alerted and awoke the phantom from his trenching thoughts, his minty gaze flicking to the two who had approached with aeons of distrust, though he daren't concentrate on those who didn't diserve his attention for too long. It were these helpless, wounded beasts who needed saving.
The smaller of the two, a bloodied and bashed doe had bleated across the scene to the stallion with nothing but fear and shock emerging from her cries; it was a kind that reminded Toulouse of true terror. Primarily he would assume that they were travelling companions, a couple even, though something told him that their relationship was not an ancient one forged by the gods like many he had witnessed over the years.

'quelle—
veux-tu?'

It were these three melodic words that caused the snake-like gelding's snarl to cease. Those words, that accent, that musical bohemian language; it all reminded him of none other than all of the women he loved. His mother, a Qualian of T'det spoke with that fierce dialect just like his loveless, yet picturesque spouse had. Most recently, it was the ballerina assassin who had reminded him of his childhood and the melodic language he had grown up speaking; now it was this lamb, tucked under the snare of fox fangs and bone-like crowns.
"rien," the gelding uttered, his keen eyes looking directly upon her own "seulement pour vous aider."

His crown of horns turned to face the approaching male, one who looked as though he would fall under the weight of a feather upon his back. The pale one wished to assist him, tell him to stop immediately and lay flat until a healer could be called for, but something intimidated him, keeping him silent. Perhaps it was the stag's impressive ability to even stand after sustaining such wounds.
As he closed in towards the bleating fae, Toulouse allowed himself a pace or two forwards in an attempt to provide himself as a lean for the injured man, but also to protect the girl he strode over to protect. The man could hardly stand - if he were to fall he'd only injure her more.
Though, the words boomed by the boxer caused Toulouse to give a grunt of his own.

Stay back,
--or you'll end up like him.

so they were not a pair, or so Toulouse could only guess by their completely different dialects.
"I heard fighting, screaming. I rushed to aid you" the pale one snorted "You seemed to have taken care of... it. Though, it seems to have almost done the same to you. Whether you want it or not you have my help as an agent of the north" He didn't need to go into detail, not now - politics was best discussed when those discussing it werent near death.
"Lower your defences, my lord. You appear to be losing blood which means limited time before your blood pressure plummets-
... you won't come back to consciousness after that"

Looking to the other two gathered, and then the serpent that lingered upon his horns, Toulouse wondered what the best course of action might be. They needed a healer; an actual healer.
Tilney, Lyanna, Sacre... or whoever held a similar position in the north.
"In the west I know of three healers. We need one, at least; Tilney travels often, you might find him nearest." He directed his idea towards those gathered, particularly those with wings or who were bonded to companions with wings. If he was to leave he'd be running all day and night, and Boomslang was useless as covering ground.
"I fear these wounds might be fatal"