clay had taken to the ridge beyond the camp, collecting roots and bark with half his mind and spending the other half listening for voices that didn’t belong.

he did not like the sharing of the singing hills with the lanzadoii men, their women, and cubs.

neither did he like much of anything, though.

the chieftain’s son is not drawn from his gathering until there comes the commotion in the distance, drifting soundly from the silhouette of cloud lash’s wetu. it draws him now like the pitter pattering of cold wash rain upon his gray pelt, and he moves as if he is wind, his bundle of goods in tow.

it is not long before he stands tall and questioning beyond the entrance of the wetu, peering within using green gem eyes and passing judgement upon a grimacing look.

clay breathes, and drops his things, to come to her aide.

i have a salve. he begins speaking and takes her paw within his, using the gentle touch taught to him by his mother. clay does not offer much more in conversation or even a glance as he peels back the deer skin hide he carried with.

but as he does so;

you could have called for help. my sister is excellent at preparing meats. clay does not let his emerald eyes lift to her ruby gaze, returning her paw to his glimpse for inspection. the balm would help to draw the splinter out, and ward away any infection.

clay sighs gently. she is excellent at everything.