I'll be a stone, I'll be the hunter,
The tower that casts a shade
***
The tower that casts a shade
***
Raymond had always found the best disguise to be the one that disguised least. Lying is costly and difficult, keeping up with a lie even more so; if deception was on his mind, he preferred to distract rather than mislead. In any case, he had no intention of leading the young mare before him astray. For the time being, the red stallion was exactly what he said he was, and could do exactly what he said he could.
"It beats dying of sepsis," he quipped with a brief head bob and a lopsided smile that affirmed Hydra's assumption where his words did not. He wasn't there to brag or intimidate her - if anything, responding to the sounds of the dusty filly's ire constituted a waste of potentially-valuable time on his way to Denocte's capitol.
His curiosity had gotten the better of him, though. So there they were.
She signaled her consent by shifting to the bank, and the red stallion snaked his head around to study the wounds as he drew near. Though not deep, they continued stubbornly to bleed, and he might have paused to congratulate himself on his own fortitude for not immediately thinking of the far smaller tracks left by Ruth's helpless claws as she was wrested from his back. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then turned his attention to the wild growth near and around the lakeside.
It was a bad season for herb-gathering, and frankly he'd very much have preferred to be in Pavetta's presence with her travel pouch of medical supplies, but the familiar shape of one half-dried plant caught his eye.
Ah yes.
Catlike after his own fashion, Raymond sloped over and snipped the sprig with a twitch of his blade, looking almost professorial as he carried it telekinetically back to the waiting Hydra. Before he set to work rendering the herb, he said, "This is woundwort. If you put it into a poultice, like so...." Even through instruction the red stallion's voice was inviting and conversational. He swept his muzzle through the viscous mixture of mud and yarrow and painted it thickly over the filly's open wounds. "It will help stop bleeding and prevent infections." Perfect for knife fights.
Once upon a time his words could have spoken power into the brittle leaves as he crushed them dutifully into the damp bankmud. Today they would only be leaves and his words only informative.
The job was not glamorous. With her haunches crudely streaked with blood and mud, Hydra looked more like one of those reclusive swamp-dwelling types than a fjord horse, but it would do. "I'd probably suggest you try to avoid having to use it on yourself, though." His tone was more questioning than chastising, and he followed that up with an easy smile. "I'm Raymond."
"It beats dying of sepsis," he quipped with a brief head bob and a lopsided smile that affirmed Hydra's assumption where his words did not. He wasn't there to brag or intimidate her - if anything, responding to the sounds of the dusty filly's ire constituted a waste of potentially-valuable time on his way to Denocte's capitol.
His curiosity had gotten the better of him, though. So there they were.
She signaled her consent by shifting to the bank, and the red stallion snaked his head around to study the wounds as he drew near. Though not deep, they continued stubbornly to bleed, and he might have paused to congratulate himself on his own fortitude for not immediately thinking of the far smaller tracks left by Ruth's helpless claws as she was wrested from his back. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then turned his attention to the wild growth near and around the lakeside.
It was a bad season for herb-gathering, and frankly he'd very much have preferred to be in Pavetta's presence with her travel pouch of medical supplies, but the familiar shape of one half-dried plant caught his eye.
Ah yes.
Catlike after his own fashion, Raymond sloped over and snipped the sprig with a twitch of his blade, looking almost professorial as he carried it telekinetically back to the waiting Hydra. Before he set to work rendering the herb, he said, "This is woundwort. If you put it into a poultice, like so...." Even through instruction the red stallion's voice was inviting and conversational. He swept his muzzle through the viscous mixture of mud and yarrow and painted it thickly over the filly's open wounds. "It will help stop bleeding and prevent infections." Perfect for knife fights.
Once upon a time his words could have spoken power into the brittle leaves as he crushed them dutifully into the damp bankmud. Today they would only be leaves and his words only informative.
The job was not glamorous. With her haunches crudely streaked with blood and mud, Hydra looked more like one of those reclusive swamp-dwelling types than a fjord horse, but it would do. "I'd probably suggest you try to avoid having to use it on yourself, though." His tone was more questioning than chastising, and he followed that up with an easy smile. "I'm Raymond."
***
Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.
Raymond
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
When the man comes around.
* woundwort is a colloquial term for the yarrow plant
@Hydra <3
aut viam inveniam aut faciam
