think less of me . infections

[roan ;]

The scent of rot on the air is pungent, and overtaking. It seemed to have become a dark cloud, hanging down over the entirety of the Typhoon, despite the fact that it could realistically only reach so far. Blood is not unfamiliar to Roan, the sage having familiarized himself with its scent long ago, when he was forced to patch up the wounds of his friends, of his crewmates, of his family. It stained his fur a crimson red and made his stomach clench, his body desperate to get away and his heart screaming for relief from the pain, pain, pain he surrounded himself with. Yet still, went the scent of rot, and guts, and decay reached him, the young siamese made no effort to run away, or try to hide. His blue eyes glazed over, near mechanically shutting his emotions off as he climbed up into his house, grabbing a bandana to tie firmly over his muzzle. It was not truly for his sake, no, he had become far too used to the suffering, and the scent of it. Instead it was for the sake of his stomach, fighting off the desperate desire his body had to empty itself of all contents at the scent of a very much dead being on the air. Through the bandana, his jaws clenched down gently on his satchel, pulling it up and over his head, smacking quietly against his side. The descent from his house was smooth, silent, and practiced. The sign of a medic and a child turned far too old, far too quickly, by what he had seen.

Roan had not been present when Lucifer and his brood had arrived back to their rightful home, far too caught up in taking care of Goldie and any other patients that he had. Most free time he had these days was either spent playing games in the tavern, studying his books, or simply enjoying a bit of quiet time with a cup of coffee. He no longer felt the delight over new people – or in this case, returning people – joining anymore that he had once felt in the days of his youth. Back then, he had always been so overjoyed, because it meant that he had someone new to ask questions of, and make friends with. These days, it only felt as though it was another person joining the crew that he would inevitably be forced to treat. In this case – as with most cases, at least to the feline himself – he had been right. Their first true interaction, and he came across one of the vicious raptors collapsed in the sand, stained with blood and stinking of rot and infection. Roan was honestly surprised that Ament had not fallen dead yet from leaving his wounds to fester for so long, but he supposed that the beast must've been hardy. After all, it had once been believed that his kind had died out, and yet... here they stood. Or rather, here he laid, would be the more proper way to put it.

The young sage spared Silas only a glance as he moved past him, feeling no real reason to hesitate, or even briefly pause in his step. Silas was just there, sitting, and watching. He clearly didn't want to be of help, and even if he had wanted to be, Roan wasn't sure he would've accepted it. He had adapted to working alone. He didn't need to grow used to another change of pace just so that Silas could vanish, just as easily as Ahab had. The thought caused Roan to grit his teeth, the feline taking the last few long strides over to where Ament laid. The scent of the dead rogue was still overpowering, and the blood that smeared the raptor's scales was enough a sign as any that he was the culprit, but the siamese shoved that from his mind. He couldn't do anything for that rogue now, and Ament was a crewmate. Savage beast as the thing was, he was meant to care for it. Taking a shuddering breath inward, Roan tested the other's name on his tongue, checking to see if the other would respond, "Ament." When the air remained deathly still, save for the sound of the pair's breathing, the sage took that as confirmation that the other was well and truly out, moving closer.

The scent of infection on the breeze was impossible to miss, and it took only a few moments for Roan's wandering paws to find the rings of infection, wincing when he saw the no doubt burning wounds. The siamese spared a glanced back towards Silas before he let his claws break forth, digging into the infected skin and tearing the wounds open once again. The sage was forced to close his eyes as he felt blood well forth, staining his paws an ugly color as he took another shuddering breath. Digging into his satchel, it wasn't long before he pulled out a clean cloth, a bit of alcohol, and some clean water in a bottle. He got to work cleaning the wounds out thoroughly, ignoring the disgust and bile that welled up in him at the sheer state that Ament was in. He did the other's neck first, then moved onto his arm, praying that the creature wouldn't awaken while he worked. Once Ament's injuries were thoroughly cleaned, Roan pulled out the bayberry, horsetail, and marigold. He mashed them into a paste, applying the poultice liberally to the reopened wounds before covering them in honey to prevent any further infections. The last thing he did was pull out his bandages, covering Ament's neck and arm carefully, so that hopefully everything would heal properly this time.

By the time Roan was done with the entire operation, his front was plastered in blood, honey, and the poultice he had made, his body smelling of a horrible combination of all present. He stared down at Ament for a moment, sheer exhaustion tugging at him before he turned his head back towards Silas, and towards town. Clearing his throat, the sage mumbled simply, "I am going to need help bringing him back to the temple. For observation." He couldn't risk Ament's wounds growing to fester again, after all.

[glow=#D15540,1,000]" stay by my side, high or low tide " ♡[/glow]