All he could really think of was the little bird speaking of injury. Something to the tune of, "make sure if anyone gets injured, they come back here."

He could barely walk; his fur was singed, his skin hot and aching, each step bringing sharp pains where his paws were burnt and his skin was torn. His eyes were dry and hot, his vision blurry, and there was a ringing in his ears.

The black dog's entire body throbbed with pain; he ignored it.

Instead his focus, past his gasping breaths, were on the brown mustelid who he was dragging from Polaris. He had barely flicked a gaze toward the owl that crouched in the tunnel entrance, staring at them with empty, blind green eyes. He ignored the sounds of battle that receded behind them. Only when he saw the vines neatly-laid-out did he allow himself any measure of emotion, the faintest twinge of relief touching his stone heart.

Black was carrying Fisher by the scruff. His musky brown fur filled Black's maw and nostrils, as did the scent of burned hair. He had fallen; his magic had been strong, but Fisher had fallen, and he'd been screaming. The sound, or rather the memory of it, still tore at him, still ate at him.

He laid Fisher's limp body down gently beside the vines, and looked to Bevy, and the lioness beyond. He collapsed to his stomach, lying there and staring, his gaze demanding attention.

"Help him," he woofed simply.

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He watched with a studious sort of calm as Bevy spoke, and took over. He lay quiet, unobtrusive, large ears pricking up to watch Makyna. Despite his wounds, he seemed relatively alert--even sharp, perhaps even overly so. His whole body jerked with Baratheon was carried in, his eyes widening--then narrowing in recognition. Perhaps the white 'dragon' would die. That would be best; at least he had fought on their side, this time, but all would be better if he perished. He was danger, just as much as Raheerah had been. Black was briefly tempted to try and finish it, but thought better of the fleeting thought, turning back away.

At the deep, throbbing chant of "NEMEAN," and the familiar droning buzz, he tried to leap to his feet with a threatening huff of a bark.

Down he staggered, his hind legs failing him, so that he lay glaring and growling at the far end, blood and drool leaking from his jowls. He seemed to entirely ignore Makyna's question, or perhaps didn't even hear it. His wounds seemed obvious, nonetheless--bruises, torn flesh, burns. The poor lion would have hardly had a moment on her patient--and he wasn't a very good one, almost ignoring her care.

He began to drag himself forward, hackles raised--then paused, glancing back toward Fisher. Bevy seemed to be quite prepared to care for him, but...

To and fro. To and fro. The tunnel, the brown mustelid. Choices.

At last he satisfied himself by crawling to where the green-eyed owl was staring blindly into Polaris, at the end of the tunnel. Black lay at the tunnel's mouth, too, peering out into the fires and the madness that engulfed the crystalline cave, while keeping himself between the danger and Fisher.

He wanted to rush out, to chase that buzzing and bite it and kill it, but he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't even stand.

So for now, he lay near the other injured, watching the dancing fairy taunt the dragon beyond, a soft growl rumbling from his chest.

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