A coppery tang in the air wasn't unfamiliar to the boy exposed to gore nearly every day, be it spilled from his own tar-filled veins, prey, or occasionally his peers. Blood meant injury and with his volunteering to step up as a medic, injury no longer meant oppurtunity, but rather, a plea. Nostrils flaring as he tipped his head towards the lazy wind, Beck pinpointed the source drifting from the direction of the border, not too far from his usual route of checking traps. His jaws clenched tighter onto the measly rabbit collected from a snare, hesitating to abandon the possible meal for someone else before relinquishing it to approach the bleeding creature instead.

    Creeping through the marsh reeds, his ears twitching at the snippets of conversation between Jim's familiar voice and a unrecognized female. The scrawny feline stumbled from the undergrowth, eyes scanning her face before locking onto the obvious gash along her side. Momentarily forgetting her question that hung in the air, Beck straightened from his slouch, tearing his blurred gaze away from her wound to rasp, "I co-ould clean that for ya, ya know. And, and maybe stitch it, too." Although blood shrouded his view of the gash's edges, it seemed ragged and deep enough -- "How'd ya get it?" he asked, already beginning to reach inside his apparition to retrieve a washcloth he preemptively stored. Was he doing everything right? Murky fragments of past medics served as his instructions alongside the encyclopedia diagrams he memorized until the early hours of the morning, but he had hardly any clue how to behave. Sympathy wasn't exactly his forte, to phrase it gently.