Every second counted in ensuring the rat stabilized. Even the tiniest injury left untended could manifest into a threat to its life later down the road. Prescribed rest then would lose its restorative properties, turned to nothing more than a new grave for the Lesser to sink into once its body succumbed to the intruding infection. So many factors to account for gathered into quite a hefty pile of worries when the expectation fell to one healer banishing all these ills. No magic practitioner or overly skilled surgeon himself, East could only check over the work and wait while someone else did the heavy lifting in this operation.
Having never dipped far into his own well of magic, much less noticed his odd hunches could sometimes be linked to more esoteric sources than common sense, East knew little firsthand of spellcasting's fickleness. What information he did possess was Vivilene's relatively adept command of whatever powers she held. Yellow eyes drank in that awkward beat in her process where nothing emerged out of flexing fingers, and their focus shifted to graze her silhouette instead of brazenly stare.
"A moment taken is a little extra breath gained to work wonders. If you only need one, this should be a small miracle compared to what you've already done." The remark rang sincere: what more was staving off infection when sewing flesh together required far more finesse.
Not often blessed with the pleasantry of conversation but never the type to freely trust, East didn't immediately spring to offer his own identity in return. The pressure of his gaze remained settled on Orion's rubble instead of the half-cervine being who fate had brought him into collaboration with, weighing risks and benefits. Despite wariness that came as naturally to him as breathing, obvious lack of ill intent handily tipped the scales in honesty's favor. After all, what sort of dagger could a passing healer wield with a stranger's given name? Hopefully one so blunt-edged it better served as a toy than a weapon.
"I'm East," he sent back. "No relation to the direction." The mild wisecrack was swiftly tacked on, a momentary distraction from a dire situation.
Air whistled into his beak, a soft sound, upon hearing the pry at personal intentions. Attention slid toward the rat and its barely rising chest, any pause or stutter in the pattern of inhales and exhales watched for before breaking his silence. Feathers bunched up around his neck as wings lifted. They made an exaggerated shrug, emotions downplayed.
"I'm not fond of anyone falling victim to random chance. Better to help someone beat the caves' bad odds than let them lose out for no good reason."
Survival dictated there be winners and losers, those fast enough of mind and body to scurry out of the shadow of falling debris and the others who simply became splatters against stone. He understood the order of things well, yet acceptance of it was another tale. An undeserved or unnecessary death might be common, but it wasn't an everyday occurrence he condoned. Call it another defect present in the hawk's nature.
Though far from unkind in the dismissal, East shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. Didn't even know that was something possible for anybody." This didn't discount the rest of her recommendations. And so he added, "Herbs I do have a little familiarity with. Been shown how to apply one of those... ah, what did that bark lady call them? A poultice. And I can whip up a good medicinal brew if I have to. Can't be any worse trickling one down this fella's throat than a crotchety old snake's."
Long fallen into ruin, finding any more fragile remnant of the city's past was unlikely. Most textiles, whether sturdy or soft, would've worn away cycles before his beak had ever pecked a hole in his chrysalis. Regardless, a surface to roll the rat onto for transport was preferable to the riskiness of strong talons shifting it into a more shadowed hiding spot. Therefore, he backed away a couple paces from the patient and scanned the urban wasteland for signs of anything poking out from crumbled masonry.
Tufts of what appeared to be tattered fabric trembled in a breeze, buried under a mixture of fallen quartz and toppled stone. A flap of wings carried him over to the spot and sweeps of a foot cleared away the top layer of debris. What awaited him, however, wasn't a useful if somewhat rotten piece of history. No, it answered the question of where at least some of the rat's pack had gone. Were his stomach weaker or his eyes unaccustomed to discovery of morbid tales, bile would've risen in his throat. Instead a heavy sigh gusted out of lungs at the sight.
Not one, but three fresh corpses were stacked on top of each other, their gazes glazed and teeth bared. Apparently a whole section of quartz had loosened its hold upon the ceiling, though perhaps not in a uniform downpour. Maybe this portion had fallen first, and the still living rat had fled only to be caught in the strike zone of that other hunk of rock. Either way, it lay gasping as a survivor of a sudden massacre.
"You wouldn't by any chance happen to have something to scoot under them?" he called over to Vivilene. Mention of the uncovered death pit didn't seem necessary or ideal for the circumstances. "This place always likes to hide anything immediately useful beneath dust and broken lives."
Typical. Whenever things looked slightly less grim, the caves enjoyed spitting another reminder of its cruelty in his face.