He had... underestimated the damage Windclan could do. Either that, or overestimated the will of Skyclan
Sever damage was few and far between, that's what he'd thought, what he'd hoped, but moorland claws had sunk deep into the pelts of these few, and refused to let go. The old fool, toppled by claws and the rotting of his own bones. Blaise, who was foolish enough to die to cats with no morals. Brutal beasts, they were, no better than mutts, and he's revealed his weakness to them. Split open and put on display... Vivisection of something strange, from the sound of it. What a show they'd stolen for themselves.
And... besides those two, here came subject number three, ushered in by his cursed friend. A face around camp... Last Dawnglare remembers, he was brought another patient because of him. Mindless violence, or something else? Who's to say...
He doesn't care. He couldn't possibly, fresh off the cusp of petty thievery. Too busy, busy, busied with torn flesh and ripped meat, he hadn't the time to go through and decontaminate. Could hardly discern what had been ravaged, and what hasn't been. How was he to assist, when his own chambers made his stomach twist? The whispering comes nonstop, overwhelming, fraying his nerves. He is not so stubborn as to not admit his disarray once the two come into his sight. He had not been ready to be bothered. Static form, he stands outside the maw of his den; but close, close still. Close enough to will away unwelcome visitors.
He hopes that, if he ignores them, they will simply disappear. And so, ignore them he does. His head is tilted elsewhere, eyes askance and lips bitten black. But oh, drawn to noise as he was, he couldn't help a glance; maybe two, maybe three. His paws are tapping against the ground, and maybe, he snaps, "Of-ff course I can!" unwilling to simply take such a dangerous line of questioning.
High-strung, maybe, his head snaps to once the apprentice over. Once, twice, thrice– Beaten and bloody is what he was. Lips bitten. harder, the bubblings of a hiss sizzle beneath the surface. This would be– far more time than he would like it to be.
Wordlessly, he dips into his den, and they'd hope they'd have the sense to follow. "Lie down, but do not– t-touch a thing." And with the aftertaste of those worlds still on his tongue, he scrounges for cobweb. Excessive amounts, by the look of it. The two of them best pray Windclan was not so pathetic that cobwebs had been made something to steal. He settles for a no, noting that, he surely would have caught and killed any cat fleeing with web clinging to their grimy mitts.
When his eyes find the two of them again, he pauses. Blinks once, twice, before he truly approaches. (For a moment, he'd thought them intruders, and truthfully, they were just barely above such). His chest shudders with a breath, but nevermind. Nevermind. A bundle of cobweb is pressed against the worst of the wounds, piled high and soaking through, red with ichor. It was not the herbs he needed, but first and foremost, the bleeding needed to be staunched. Day-blue eyes flicker to his friend. "Hold this down, until... until..." His face scrunches. He's tired. The moment he could do so, he would step away, hunting, hunting... His careful organization has been ruined, forgone in the pursuit of selfishness. He can hardly focus, mind and body rattled, rattled... "Until... mnghh.." He's tired. It would not take a genius to figure out what he wanted. It just had to be... enough.
