G A R E T H
Gareth was grateful for the assist, giving the mare a gentle smile and a nod of thanks as she readjusted herself. As he moved slowly about the cave he listened to her words, his audits flicking back to catch each lyric. It seemed like fruit would be an excellent choice, then. The stallion stopped at a shelf lined with several jars. From her distance they might have appeared almost a sludgy brown in the firelight. He picked up three of them and started to make his way back to her.
He shook his head. “I can’t rest yet. I have to make sure to bring in enough snow for drinking and to keep your wounds clean. If I stop those things won't get done and we’ll be in right odd sorts. I need to grab the snow now, while it’s still fresh.” The stallion had always been stubborn, and he spoke the truth. These were important things that needed taking care of, and if he slowed now, they would be in trouble come the morning.
As the medic closed the gap between them, the jars started to swim with a more pleasing hue. While still dark, it was amber in colour, the vague shape of some kind of fruit floating around- probably the peaches he had mentioned. Flecks of other ingredients were present as well, perhaps cinnamon, or nutmeg, or some other spice to help with flavour and to keep the jar preserved. He placed the three jars in front of her, stooping his neck so that his muzzle just barely brushed against her shoulder before straightening up again.
“I’ll be back,” he said, turning to the now almost empty cauldron. He was very careful as he moved it about, the iron still holding heat from the flames. It took him nearly twice as long as before to return with more snow, and as he set the full cauldron down by the fire he immediately went to fetch another cauldron, and then another. This took a considerable amount of time, and though his pace was slow, he was steady and never faltered.
Only once a majority of the pots were overflowing with the dense white powder did he finally return to Pangaea’s side, falling to his knees and curling next to her and the warmth of the fire. His breath was short, but not ragged, and returned to normal soon after he made himself comfortable. He was weary, laying his large cranium down upon the soft fur pelt that covered his makeshift bedding.
“How did you like the peaches,” he inquired, his lyrics soft, drowsy. He made no attempt to keep his eyes open any longer, instead choosing to simply listen to her response, his energy finally spent.
He shook his head. “I can’t rest yet. I have to make sure to bring in enough snow for drinking and to keep your wounds clean. If I stop those things won't get done and we’ll be in right odd sorts. I need to grab the snow now, while it’s still fresh.” The stallion had always been stubborn, and he spoke the truth. These were important things that needed taking care of, and if he slowed now, they would be in trouble come the morning.
As the medic closed the gap between them, the jars started to swim with a more pleasing hue. While still dark, it was amber in colour, the vague shape of some kind of fruit floating around- probably the peaches he had mentioned. Flecks of other ingredients were present as well, perhaps cinnamon, or nutmeg, or some other spice to help with flavour and to keep the jar preserved. He placed the three jars in front of her, stooping his neck so that his muzzle just barely brushed against her shoulder before straightening up again.
“I’ll be back,” he said, turning to the now almost empty cauldron. He was very careful as he moved it about, the iron still holding heat from the flames. It took him nearly twice as long as before to return with more snow, and as he set the full cauldron down by the fire he immediately went to fetch another cauldron, and then another. This took a considerable amount of time, and though his pace was slow, he was steady and never faltered.
Only once a majority of the pots were overflowing with the dense white powder did he finally return to Pangaea’s side, falling to his knees and curling next to her and the warmth of the fire. His breath was short, but not ragged, and returned to normal soon after he made himself comfortable. He was weary, laying his large cranium down upon the soft fur pelt that covered his makeshift bedding.
“How did you like the peaches,” he inquired, his lyrics soft, drowsy. He made no attempt to keep his eyes open any longer, instead choosing to simply listen to her response, his energy finally spent.
"Speech" | | @Pangaea | Peaches- think Sploosh
