Cicada watches from beneath the fern's dappled shade, their gaze steady as Vampire makes their reluctant approach. The bog's muck clings to their steps, dragging their movements, but the urgency beneath their hesitance does not escape Cicada's notice. They do not move to greet them. Instead, they remain seated, their thin frame still as stone, save for the occasional flick of an ear or the subtle shift of a paw to steady themselves against the uneven ground. Their orange eyes, gleaming like caught sunlight, roam over Vampire with quiet precision. They do not flinch at the sight of the chest wound, though its crusted blood and angry edges speak of neglect and poor judgment. Their expression betrays nothing—no sympathy, no frustration, only the careful calculation of a healer taking stock of a problem. When Vampire finally speaks, Cicada lets the words settle in the humid air between them. "I have heard tell of your way with herbs," they say, their voice tinged with reluctance. Cicada tilts their head slightly, the motion slow and deliberate, as if to examine not just the wound but the hesitation behind the words.
When the request comes, awkwardly tacked on, Cicada finally rises. Their movements are fluid and unhurried, as though they are not wading through mud but through the currents of time itself. They step closer, their gaze falling from Vampire's eyes to the wound on their chest. "You've ignored this too long," they murmur, their voice soft but firm, like moss hiding stone. There is no malice in their tone, nor any trace of comfort. "It speaks now, louder than you'd like. You should have listened earlier." They circle Vampire slowly, the way one might survey a tree for signs of rot, pausing only to let their tail drift in front of them. They pluck a few sprigs from the fur with practiced movements of their teeth. "Sit," Cicada says, the command gentle in tone but brooking no argument.
"You can't afford foolishness here," they say as they step away, gathering some moss and dipping it into a puddle not far from where the two were standing, their voice as calm and steady as the movements of their paws. "This land will punish carelessness, and it will not care if you had noble reasons." Cicada sets to work without another word, their movements deliberate and precise. Their dark eyes flick to Vampire's wound again, their gaze sharp and calculating. "Stay still," they murmur, and the calm authority in their voice leaves little room for disobedience. They press the moss to the crusted wound on Vampire's chest, the cool dampness meeting torn flesh. The dried blood begins to loosen, and Cicada works carefully, dabbing and wiping to clear away the debris of the bog and the remnants of the night's stubborn efforts. The red edges of the wound reveal themselves under the careful cleaning, the swelling and irritation unmistakable.
"This will sting," Cicada warns, but their tone carries no apology. They press a little more firmly, ensuring the wound is clean. The sting is sharp, but Cicada's touch remains steady, their paws light and practiced. Satisfied with the cleaned wound, they set the moss aside and turn to the herbs they've plucked from their tail. They glance at the sprig of goldenrod and a few chervil leaves, inspecting them briefly before settling back onto their haunches. Without ceremony, they pop the herbs into their mouth, chewing them into a thick, pungent paste. The sharp, earthy aroma of the chewed leaves fills the air, mingling with the metallic scent of the newly wet blood that had been cleaned from the wound.
They spit the poultice into one paw, their dark eyes flicking up to Vampire's. Carefully, they spread the goldenrod and chervil poultice over the wound. The paste clings to the raw flesh, forming a protective layer. They press the poultice into place with a light touch, ensuring it adheres properly. When they are done, Cicada leans back, their gaze sweeping over their work with a quiet satisfaction. "This should hold for now. I'll need to check it again in a day or two." They glance up at Vampire, their expression unreadable but their tone firm. "Keep it dry, and don't strain yourself. You'll undo my work."
