Grian

Grian smiles when you walk over to greet him. An assortment of herbs is scattered in front of him and he is deep in thought arranging and rearranging the plants. "I don't mean to ignore you, I'm just thinking - Oh! So a bunch of tobacco can ward of fleas! Interesting..."

-

Sear stumbles into Tundra Touch Cave, holding her leg above the ground. "Grian," her voice is hoarse, "please help me." Grian peaks a look behind him and rushes over, grabbing herbs at random as if they could be useful. He bends over, sniffing the irony tang of blood matted into her fur. He drops the random herbs, scattering them onto the floor.

"Lay down and I'll get you something. Don't move that leg, or you will make it worse," Grian says as he runs off to began mixing herbs for a salve.

An hour later, Grian returns with the herb paste - a pink mixture contained in a hallowed rock, held very carefully in his mouth. He sets the rock beside Sear, dipping his paw into the paste, and spreading it across her wound. Sear grits her teeth, locking her jaw to keep from howling. "Good," Grian says, "it should be better soon. You can rest here and spend some time away from the puppies so they don't agitate the wound."

"Thank you so much," Sear says.