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The briar thorns tore at Clive's hide, each scratch a minor insult compared to the throbbing agony in his dislocated shoulder. The stallion pushed forward with waning strength, more out of stubbornness than with any real goal. He had been wading through briars for over an hour, to be sure, and it felt like every gap in his leather gear had been infiltrated, his flesh scraped raw with thorn after thorn after thorn. He had been using his sword to help clear the briars, at first, but the pain in his shoulder had eventually tanked any enthusiasm for that. Now, it served as little more than an awkward walking stick, being poked into the dank soil to check for wasp nests. He had learned that trick the hard way. His breath came in ragged gasps, visible in soft plumes as the evening air cooled from the hot humid sun. Despite having been exercising for hours, his hide tremored, his piebald coat frothed with a lather of sweat and now shivering. "Just... a little farther," he wheezed to himself, not sure if he was reassuring himself anymore. He was going to need to start preparing for camp, but there was absolutely no place to sleep in the briars, not unless he wanted to lay in the mud underneath them and just hope nothing hungry smelled him. Fat chance of that, though. When was this thicket going to end? He had not heard of any cursed forests in this part of the realm, but, he bitterly rationalized to himself, why wouldn't there be. He was sure that he would have pushed through it already, had he possessed even a fragment of his usual strength, but now his weakness beget more weakness, and the only source of motivation he had now was to criticize himself for doing so poorly. Then, at last, the bramble ended. Clive pushed his shoulder and arms through a particular thick crumble, thorns lashing into abraded flesh, the vines pulling against him to keep him restrained in the edge of the forest. Then, he was released, and stumbled forward with such unexpected freedom that he nearly fell headlong into the rushing water that was suddenly visible directly before him. The sound of the river had been masked by his own labored breathing and the bristling rustle of thorns against leather and skin. Clive swayed there, hooves sinking slightly into the moist bank, as twilight painted the scene in hushed violets and deepening blues. The air was different here, clear and smooth and fresh, unlike the dusty, pollen-filled air from the stagnant briars. That was nice. He looked up, to the purple and gray swirled skies, and then took in the small clearing that he had found himself in. There must have been a storm at some point, because the far bank had collapsed, creating a wide, long beach of grasses and flowers that had reclaimed the fresh turf. Further down stream, a wooden dam of intertangled trees had blocked the water, creating a wider, gentle backup. That's when he realized he wasn't alone. There was a figure kneeling at the water's edge, just downstream from him. She was foraging, picking particular leaves out of a lush patch of bobbing flowers, her fur a swirl of gray and red. He recognized those ears, though - she was a fox. He really, really hoped she wasn't going to try to trick him, he did not have the wits to keep himself from being pick-pocketed or the energy to stop her, if that was her plan. "Hail," He said, raising his right arm in greeting and trying not to grimace as his shoulder throbbed. The fox turned, looking at him, her eyes gleaming with a flash of reflection from the setting sun. She looked him over, up and down, and he could sense the way she was appraising him. He was leaning on his sword, the broken tip buried into the soft loam beneath him, or else he would have lifted it up and let her see it's sharp edges, more than enough to dissuade an opportunistic predator from trying anything sneaky. The fox's eyes narrowed slightly, in suspicion or perhaps curiosity. She rose in a single fluid motion, brushing her paws against the simple fabric of her herb-stained apron. The many pockets sewn into her practical garments bulged with collected specimens, and the slight scent of medicinal oils wafted from her glossy fur as she approached him. "Interesting technique for clearing a path," she observed, her voice clear and direct like the water flowing beside them. "I heard you, but I thought you must be some moose in rut." She smiled, head dipping mischievously. "Most travelers prefer to go around the briar patch rather than through it. But then again, most travelers aren't bleeding quite so profusely." She gestured to his left arm, the black and white fur dyed and caked a uniform brown courtesy of a slash across his bicep. Clive managed a smile that was more grimace than charm. "Scenic route," he quipped, the forced lightness in his tone belied by the tension in his jaw. "It is more... adventurous that way." "Adventurous. Indeed..." The vixen's gaze traveled methodically from his disarrayed mane to his trembling legs, appraising the stallion in a way that suggested she may have at one point been a town guard. "Your right shoulder appears dislocated. The cut above your left eye will need stitching, as will the slash on your arm. And unless I'm mistaken, you've been favoring your left side for some time, suggesting either cracked ribs or internal bruising." Caught in her assessment, Clive felt the weight of his pretense becoming too heavy to bear. Still, habit compelled him to maintain the façade. He leaned more heavily on his sword, adopting what he hoped was a rakish pose despite the pain it caused him in the small of his back, where an old charlie horse chose just this moment to spasm back into action.. "Oh, it's nothing serious," he insisted, even as a droplet of blood dripped off of his eyebrow. "Just the usual hazards of heroic deeds. You should see the other fellow. Fellows, actually." "I imagine the other fellow must be in a far better condition, given your current state," the vulpine replied, her tone lacking mockery but filled with a matter-of-factness that somehow cut deeper than ridicule. "The briars, at least, remain undefeated." A small, involuntary sound escaped him, something between a snort and a laugh, as the truth of her words struck home. His ears flattened against his skull, a gesture of embarrassment he couldn't suppress, and he looked over his shoulder, scowling at the heavy, darkened briar. "Yeah, well.." he said, not able to keep up the bravado very convincingly, and hating himself for that. "Sometimes the briars are the easiest part of your day." The fox's expression softened then, the clinical assessment giving way to something warmer. "Well, that's all right. I'm Sylvia, and fortunately for you, I have some experience with patching up heroes; would-be or otherwise." She moved closer, her smaller frame somehow projecting enough authority that Clive didn't protest as she took his good elbow in her paw. She began to walk, and he followed. Her touch was firm yet gentle, professional in its assurance. "My camp is just beyond those trees," she said, pointing to a flickering glow hidden around the back of a large oak. "It's not far, but given your condition, even that distance may prove challenging. Lean on me if you must, though I'd prefer you didn't collapse entirely. You do outweigh me considerably." "I wouldn't dream of it," Clive managed, his legs threatening to give out as he strained not to lean on her as much as he knew he needed to. "A gentleman never imposes his full weight on a lady." "Save your gallantry for when you can stand without swaying," she advised, pausing and helping him around a snarl of roots jutting out from the torn soil. "Focus instead on placing one hoof in front of the other." The journey was short and torturous, but not as torturous as the briars had been. I've really outdone it this time, the stallion thought bitterly to himself. He wondered if she planned to eat him; surely a stallion like him could keep a small fox lady fed for weeks. Perhaps there was some damned alchemical ingredients secreted away inside him. He knew it was silly to suspect this fox, this Sylvia, of such heinous things, but he did not have the luxury of optimism anymore. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through his abused body, and the sword he still clutched served increasingly poorly as an improvised cane. Sylvia maintained a steady pace beside him, her presence a strange anchor in his sea of discomfort. She didn't fill the silence with needless chatter, for which he was profoundly grateful. The sound of the river grew fainter as they moved away from its banks and into a small clearing nestled among ancient oaks. Sylvia's camp was modest, but undeniably...particular. A fire burned low in a carefully constructed stone ring, its flames a dull orange. It was not bright, but it cast a warm glow across the small space. There was a poled tent set up between two trees, vines lashing sturdy burlap in place. One of the trees had a thick, low hanging branch that had been shaved flat on top; the wood was stained with circles and blobs of various concoctions. Hanging from the lower branches of surrounding trees were dozens of small bundles of herbs, their varied shapes and colors creating an aromatic canopy. "Sit," Sylvia instructed, gesturing towards the low hanging branch. "That is usually my alchemical bench, but it will do as a bench for the likes of you." "I'm fine standing-" Clive began, but the fox yipped sharply, snapped her fingers and pointed again. "Sit," she said, he head canting knowingly to the side. "...before you ." Clive did not possess the strength to argue further. He allowed her to help lower him onto the branch, his sword finally relinquished to rest against the trunk of the tree. The relief of no longer having to support his own weight was so profound that for a moment, he simply closed his eyes, breathing in the mingled scents of medicinal herbs and burning wood. When he opened them again, Sylvia was moving purposefully around the camp, selecting items from various containers and adding them to her apron. Her efficiency spoke of years of practice, each motion economical yet somehow graceful. "You have a good setup here," he commented, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. "Very... organized." "A healer's work requires organization," she replied, as she stripped a cluster of dried berries from a vine. "Especially one who chooses to practice away from the comforts of town." She paused, finally turning to regard him with an expression that contained both concern and determination. "Now, let's see what can be done about that shoulder of yours, shall we? The rest of your injuries will need attention too, but that appears to be causing you the most immediate distress." Clive felt a flutter of anxiety in his chest, the stallion scoffing dismissively. Sylvia watched him, as she dropped her various ingredients down into the simmering iron pot that rested now on top of the fireplace. Had it always been there? He had not noticed it before. He felt flush, weirdly light-headed, though he did not remember her pricking him with anything. It wasn't an alchemical effect, he realized, but a sensation of relief, which was itself as foreign to him as the taste of alcohol or the tang of butterwort resin. He realized, with a flicker of surprise, that he was beginning to trust her. He had to, of course. He was wounded, beaten much further than he was capable of recovering from, at least not unaltered. He needed her help. The fire's warmth seeped into Clive's aching muscles, momentarily dulling the sharpest edges of his pain. With the ongoing exhaustion of merely standing removed, he had slightly more brain power to recollect his thoughts, to assess the situation. Something began to nag at him. She stirred the pot with a large smooth wooden spoon, and he could hear the sound of it scraping against the hot metal. Clive cleared his throat, ears flicking nervously. "I should mention," he began, voice pitched lower than necessary, "I haven't any money. Not anymore." Sylvia lifted the spoon out of the pot, and tapped it against the rim. She turned to regard him, her expression neither surprised nor perturbed. "I don't recall presenting you with an bill," she replied, as she wiped the apron dry with her apron. "Though I am curious, adventurer. What could possibly of separated you from your coin while simultaneously decorating you with such an impressive collection of injuries?" Clive shifted uneasily on the bench, his good arm moving to support his injured shoulder. The admission of financial emptiness was merely the least embarrassing of his recent failures, yet speaking it aloud had demanded explanation, and explaining it was not going to be easy. "It's a rather long story," the stallion hedged, watching as she approached him. "Most stories that are worth telling must be," she observed, kneeling beside him. Her paws moved toward the clasps of his leather pauldron, hovering there in silent request for permission. He deliberated, staring at her fingers as if he expected them to bite her. Finally, he nodded, and she began to unfasten his armor with practiced efficiency. "We have until these herbs lose their potency, which gives you approximately until dawn. Why don't you tell me how your shoulder popped out of its socket?" The pauldron came away, revealing a matted patch of fur beneath. It had been clean and groomed when the pauldron had been put on, but that had been... a long time ago. Clive winced, as she set the armor to the side. "I was hired to retrieve a ceremonial chalice," he began, "Goblins had stolen it, and taken it to the limestone caves east of the river bend." "Mmm, I know the area." Sylvia acknowledged, her fingers working at the buckles of his breastplate. It came free, the carapace peeling loose with a wet sound, his fur crusted with sweat. "The goblins weren't the problem," Clive continued, adjusting his position to give her better access to his other pauldron, "I've dealt with their kind before. They'll usually trade their spoils for something big and shiny." He cleared his throat, as the other pauldron was removed, his upper body fully bared now. "What the elder failed to mention was that they had trained giant beetles as mounts." He paused, remembering the iridescent carapaces gleaming in the torchlight. "Beetles. Have you ever seen a giant riding beetle? Their pincers can snap a sword in two." "I've treated three cases of beetle pincer wounds in the past year," Sylvia agreed, as she slipped behind him, and began to gently press the base of her wrist along the base of his neck, carefully probing it towards his wounded shoulder. "Their secretions cause a distinctive purple rash. You seem to have escaped that particular complication." "Only because I didn't get close enough for them to grab me," Clive admitted. "I was forced to retreat into a narrow passage where the beetles couldn't follow. Seemed like good thinking at the time." "Well, when you're being chased by those, any solution that might get you further away from them is probably good thinking at the time." She stroked his palm along his shoulder, her tone softening. "This will be uncomfortable, but necessary. The longer a joint remains dislocated, the more difficult proper healing becomes." Clive nodded, bracing himself. "I've had shoulders reset before. Never pleasant." She took his arm in her other paw, just at the beginning of his tricep, her grip quite surprisingly strong and sure. "Now, where did the passageway lead to?" She was keeping him distracted, so that he wouldn't get tense from the pain of the shoulder relocation. Very well. Clive chuckled self-deprecatingly, staring into the fire as he thought back to that night, over a week ago now. "The passage opened up into an underground grotto. It was a beautiful place. Crystal formations everywhere, glowing mushrooms growing on the walls." He winced. "Also home to an entire colony of silk spiders." "Not venomous, but territorial," Sylvia noted. "And producers of remarkably strong webbing." "Few healing processes are," she acknowledged. "But many are necessary nonetheless. Here we go, on three. One..." She moved suddenly, before reaching "two," a swift, practiced motion that involved both rotation and firm pressure. A sharp pop echoed in the clearing as the joint returned to its socket, accompanied by Clive's strangled grunt of pain. "You said on three," he gasped, his eyes wide with surprise and lingering pain. "The anticipation only makes your muscles tense further," Sylvia explained, her fingers softly stroking along the back of his shoulder, checking to make sure that the resocketing went smoothly. "The pain will subside quickly. The herbs in my washing solution include natural analgesics that will absorb through your skin." True to her word, the initial fire of pain was already receding, replaced by a dull ache and, beneath that, the profound relief of proper anatomical alignment. Clive flexed his fingers experimentally, finding the movement easier than it had been in days. "Better?" Sylvia asked, securing the bandage with a neat knot. "Much," he admitted, gratitude softening his deep voice. "Good," Sylvia said. She stepped away from him, wiping her paw along her apron and moving back to the fire. "Keep telling me about those spiders. Did you get caught up in their webbing? I happen to know first hand that their silk is strong enough to suspend a fully-armored stallion upside down for at least several hours." "Oh, um. Well. Yeah," Clive agreed, the admission burning his ears with embarrassment. "By the time I cut myself free, I was dizzy, and covered in bites. They're not venomous, right?" "Right," Sylvia said. She picked up the pot from the fire, it's surface bubbling with wet sticky blops. She carried it carefully to him, keeping it well out of reach of his long legs. "Carnivorous, but not venomous. Though based on all the welts, I expect you have a low tolerance to the enzymes in their saliva." "Yeah," Clive said, as she pulled off one of his boots. His ankle was swollen, his lips tightening into a grimace as the boot was unsheathed from his paw. "Which made the dumb bog a real, real pain in the tuckus. There was a tower that kept sliding away from me, every time I got close to it." "The Leaning Spire of Mirrorfen?" Sylvia inquired, her paws now working at removing his other boot with careful tugs. Clive blinked in surprise. "You know it?" "By reputation only. The tower shifts its orientation with the phases of the moon. Unpredictable terrain." "Unpredictable doesn't begin to cover it," Clive muttered. "Every time I tried to get into, I ended up falling face first in the muck. That's where most of my supplies are," he said, gesturing to the forest behind them. "Back in there. Including my money. I only got in by luck, during the eclipse." "Oh, clever boy, "Sylvie said. She reached up to his belt, pausing at his gasp of alarm. Clive hurriedly reached, down, covering himself, and Sylvie glanced up at him, a wry look on her muzzle. "Really?" Clive shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks and neck turning red under his dirty fur. "I don't think I'm injured there." Sylvie cupped under his chin, then, lifting it up slightly to make sure he was looking at her. Her thumb stroked along the bristly fur under his lower lip, slowly, soothingly, kindly. "I don't know how to break this to you, horsey, but, you stink. I'm stripping you of your clothes so that I can clean and sanitize them for you." "Oh." Clive glanced around, lifting out of her hand, huffing through his nose. "Is it that bad?" She nodded, simply, as she pulled his belt free, the rest of his strapped on armor loosening accordingly. "Don't worry about that. Tell me about the tower." "Well, the first thing you should know is that, when it moves, you don't move with it. I found that out while I was in the middle of a hallway, and found myself hurtling towards the end of it, with its very large window, at inordinate speed." "And that's how you dislocated your shoulder?" Sylvia asked, as she worked with deft fingers worked at the lacings of his undershirt, easing the damp fabric away from his hide. The stallion's considerable chest was now exposed, revealing a patchwork of bruises blooming across his muscular frame like strange constellations. "No. Fortunately there was a wooden table mounted into the wall. I went into that." He gestured to a line of dark red spots, where thick splinters of cedar jutted out of his stomach. She carefully began to pluck them free. "I was able to curl around that, instead of going through the window." "Smart thinking, if painful," she agreed, her voice neutral despite the increasingly fantastic nature of his tale. His hide flinched as she tugged the bits of wood free of his belly, the small wounds seeping a malodorous gunk. "So what did you find in the tower?" "A family of angry, feuding water elementals," Clive said, his voice growing quieter as more of his body was revealed. "The tower was being lurched back and forth as they vied for control over the mechanism that moved it. They had been doing so for years. Oh, the control room was a mess, just full of ice, poison ivy, snakes, acid. Just a mess, and all sloshing together." "Sounds like good soup," Sylvia murmured, as her paws moved to the drawstring of his breeches. "That does explain the pattern of inflammatory rash along your flanks and the distinctive bite marks on your left haunch. A small shark, I believe." Clive shuddered and nodded, acutely aware of her proximity as she began to ease his breeches down over his powerful legs. Flesh was bared, and he tried no to think about her proximity to him, or the way his freed flesh relaxedly dangled in front of her. "Yeah, it got me good. After we got the elementals sorted-" "Sorted?" Sylvia asked, brow furrowed. "You killed multiple water elementals, all by yourself?" "Killed?" Clive looked as confused as Sylvia. "No. Oh, no, I didn't kill any of them. I, um, mediated." He paused, as Sylvia scoffed. "No, really! They just needed someone to kind of sort things out. They each needed control of the tower during specific phases of the moon, and the easiest way to control it when they needed it was to control it all the time. Once we set up a lunar calendar in the control room, they were able to, well..." "You know how to set up a lunar calendar?" Sylvia asked, as she peeled the last of his inner garments free of his ankles. "Well, yes, I-" And then Clive realized that he was naked. His breeches now removed completely, Clive sat entirely naked on the wooden branch, his considerable frame exposed to both the firelight and Sylvia's clinical gaze. His black and white patterned hide had been bared in its entirety, reflecting the cuts, bruises, scratches, and swellings that told the story of his disastrous adventure far more eloquently than his words did.He grunted self consciously, his ears burning bright red, his hands moving to cup against his groin. He had been so caught up in his story, that he had not quite realized just how vulnerable he was. "I think it's a bit late for that," Sylvia teased. "I've seen it all, and, well, it's all very nice. You don't need to hide yourself." Cliff said nothing, but kept his hands in place. "Sure, sure. I just didn't realize. Just got spooked." "No worries, stallion, I'm not about to jump your bones - and you're in no condition to jump mine. Just enjoy the soft, warm night air," Sylvia said, as she returned to sorting through her collection of herbs, clearly unfazed by his nudity. "And while you're doing that, why don't you tell me about these callouses around your collar?" "Ah, yeah, those," Clive sighed, shrugging his naked shoulders. "That was perhaps the most embarrassing part. The water elementals were nice enough to leave me off at the edge of the forest, which was great - no bog - but I had no idea which forest I was at the edge of. It was night time, and at this point it was cloudy, so I was just lost." Clive sighed, watching as Sylvia dipped a cloth into the steaming pot between his legs. She pressed it against his knee, and Clive's haunch twitched with the sudden scalding heat. It stung, but the sharp pain wasn't unwelcome. For the first time in several days, it was a pleasant, welcome pain, especially in comparison to everything else he'd suffered through recently. He watched as she gently stroked the wet cloth along his outer thigh. She lifted the filthy cloth away, and dunked it back into the water, which foamed against the intrusion. When she lifted it back out of the bucket, white, clean suds dripped from it again, and she applied it to his shin. "Go on," Sylvia nudged, as she began to soap up the naked stallion's calf, gently massaging down towards his strained ankle. "I promise not to break anything." It wasn't that he was worried about her breaking something, though. Clive had not been touched in a long time, and the stallion's body was.. responding. He could feel flesh press against his palms, making the placement of his palms even more necessary as the polite fox woman tended to his leg. He did not want her to see that, he certainly did not want her to think that he had... intentions. But the simple press of the cloth against his skin, the suds clinging to his shin, and the way she softly stroked towards the sore, swollen, inflamed ankle that he had twisted was making him intimately aware of the effect she was having on him. "Well, I, err, I bumbled around in the dark for a while. Got tripped up on some roots," he said, gesturing with his chin towards his foot, hoping to keep her attention on that. "And I, uh, encountered what appeared to be an old woman gathering mushrooms in the forest." "At night?" Sylvia asked, as she reached into the bucket and pulled out a long, thin strip of fabric. She began to wrap it slowly around the horse's ankle, and the heat of the sudsy water soaking into his ankle made Clive wince. He thought he was supposed to ice injuries like that? "Old women do not harvest mushrooms at night." "In hindsight, yes, you are correct, but, I'd had a rough weekend so I hadn't really considered that. She offered to trade me a healing potion for some assistance carrying her basket." His ears flattened against his skull in remembered humiliation. "Turned out she was a-" "Forest witch?" Sylvia interrupted, her eyes furrowed with concern. Clive nodded. "A forest witch. Well, to be more specific, a hag.She was looking for a beast of burden." Clive thumbed at his chest in self depreciation. "Namely, me. The moment I picked up her basket, it transformed into an enchanted yoke that bound itself to my shoulders. And she had the reins. Total control over my body. She had me climbing trees and raiding Roc nests for their eggs." "That explains those splinters in your inner thighs," Sylvia said, and her eyes glanced down between Clive's legs, before returning to his ankle. "Banshee Binds are banned for use by manicians, on account of the lack of overrides of safety bindings. That could have ended very badly for you." "Yeah, I know," Clive said, awkwardly, before wincing with a sharp gasp of breath as she tugged on the strap. "I was there, I mean." "Yes, of course. Sorry, I shouldn't be chastizing you for your own subjugation," Sylvia said, and then sighed. The thin strip had created a soggy cocoon around Clive's ankle, and the warmth of it was soaking into the aching, inflamed flesh, soothing it as it crept inwards. "The uneven pressure caused the bruising and chafing on your shoulders, though. Easy to tend to, but that kind of thing only happens when the owner of the spell wants it to." She paused, then rested a hand on his knee and squeezed it consolingly. "I'm sorry that there are such cruel people in this world." ________________ "Yeah," Clive admitted, with a weary sigh, as he watched her work with a mixture of curiosity and growing self-consciousness. "Me too." The more she handled him, the more she revealed of just how broken and vulnerable he was. He sat there, passively, flaccidly, a massive stallion reduced to a collection of injuries and failed endeavors, awaiting the judgment or ridicule that surely must follow such an admission of incompetence. But Sylvia merely continued her methodical preparation, adding a pinch of something that turned the simmering liquid a deeper amber color. "An impressive series of misfortunes," she observed, stirring the concoction with a wooden plank. "Most would have given up after the spider incident." "I'm not known for my good sense," Clive said, attempting to recapture some of his usual bravado but achieving only a tired honesty. "On the contrary," Sylvia countered, her eyes lifting to meet his, "survival in the face of such cascading disasters suggests a remarkable resilience. Foolhardy, perhaps, but not lacking in courage." The unexpected praise warmed something in Clive's chest that had grown cold and inert during his recitation of failures. He shifted on the smooth bench beneath him, suddenly aware of an awakening physical response to Sylvia's presence and unexpected kindness. To his mortification, his equine member had begun to press out from his sheath, sliding along the crease of his inner thigh. Its mottled pink and black flesh was one of the few parts of his body not bruised, cut, burned or abraded from his recent endeavors,but that wasn't surprising, since Clive rarely used that for anything more than as a piss hose, anyways. It was making itself known, now, though, as the intimate attention, the gentle touches as she had removed his clothing, and perhaps most significantly, the absence of the ridicule he had expected from her combined to produce the growing reaction. He turned his head away from it, his cheeks quietly darkening in embarrassment. If she noticed the stallion's growing arousal, Sylvis didn't show it. She tended to her herbal brew, the scent of medicinal plants infusing the steam that smoked out from her witch's cauldron. He didn't want to look down, to see himself, so instead he watched her hands as they pulled another strip of bandage out from the hot water. She dangled the shapeless pale clump of a bandage to steam and dangle and drip in the open air, and they both watched the water bead down the soggy length of fabric, before she brought it to the gash on his upper thigh. It stung, but in a sharp, hot, pleasant kind of way, the sting of purification and scalding, as the fluid burned away the numb, inflamed, dull ache that had settled into his bones. She focused on that, and not on his growing erection, and that in itself was soothing in a way. She wasn't looking at him with lust, with some kind of... expectation. He hated the expectation. He was a stallion, with all of the expected accoutrement, and his shaft would tickle the fancy of many a tawdry bar wench, no doubt. Around her, with her fastidious focus on his wounds, though, it was freeing. No leers, no hopeful biting of lips. Though his shaft, proud as it was, now jutted up into the air between them, she was focusing and applying another hot, steaming bandage to the clotted slash on his right haunch. Her calm acceptance of his body, and its reactions, created an atmosphere that Clive had not experienced before, a climate where his body, with all its strengths and vulnerabilities, could simply exist. Clive shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of his nakedness and partial arousal. His good arm remained strategically positioned over his groin, though the length of his member towered unabashedly above it. The nearby campfire flickered over the slick salty rime on the short fur of his muscular frame, highlighting each cut and bruise in stark relief against his piebald hide. "I apologize," he repeated, as though the statement might serve as a shield against this new vulnerability. "I wasn't expecting, this kind of a reaction. I promise, I have no intentions of, um, acting.. on... anything." He immediately regretted saying anything, because now he had said that he expected her to want to do something sexual with him, now she knew that he was thinking about sex, now she would think that he was exactly the kind of stallion he least wanted to be seen as. Sylvia regarded him with a level gaze, her silver and red fur gleaming in the golden light. She reached forward slowly, telegraphing her movement before her paw made contact with the sensitive skin of his wide, soft nose. Her palm rubbed gently against his nose in an ancient gesture of comfort among equines, one that bypassed conscious thought and spoke directly to something primal within him. "Not every interaction requires... interaction," she said softly, her fingers working in small circles against his velvet-soft nostrils. "Some things are offered freely because they are needed, without expectation of anything else." Her touch was grounding, soothing the electric anxiety that had been coursing through him since his stumbling arrival at her camp, since he had bared himself to her like this.. Clive's breathing deepened involuntarily, his nostrils flaring against her palm. The simple contact untethered something wound tight within his chest, a knot of tension unloosening. It felt like he had held his breath for far too long, and was finally letting the stale, tight air out from deep within him. His ears, previously flattened against his skull, rotated forward slightly. "Trust me," Sylvia said, a request rather than a command. "I've been doing this longer than you've been adventuring. None of... this... is anything I've not seen a hundred times before. I'm not about to lose my senses about you - and I know you're in no position to lose your sense of self preservation around me. Just... relax. You need to." The stallion released a long, shuddering breath. Then, with hesitant movements, he consciously uncurled from his protective posture. He leaned back, tentatively, still maintaining his balance, but no longer trying to shield the blatancy of his body's reaction from her. He felt a pang along his neck, on his back, and the ancient slash across his chest throbbed. "There," Sylvia approved, retrieving a clean cloth from the depths of the herbal solution. Unlike the bandages, this was cotton, or linen, a large clump of woven fabric that She wrung out the excess moisture before turning back to him. "I think we're ready to clean you up, now." She began with his face, the cloth hot, soft, and unexpectedly slimy against his cheek. The solution did indeed sting where it contacted open cuts, but the sensation faded almost immediately into a pleasant warmth that seemed to penetrate below the surface. Clive flinched at the first touch, then gradually relaxed as she worked methodically across his features. Sylvia daubed, pressing down just enough to lift the filth from his cheek bones and temple, then up over his forehead. She held the rag carefully, keeping it from draping across his eyes. "You have interesting scars," she observed, cleaning a deep scratch that ran along his jawline. "This one here.. is it from a sawtooth viper?" "Rock drake," Clive corrected, surprised by her accurate assessment. "Two summers ago in the Copper Badlands." "Hmm. You're fortunate. Their venom typically leaves more distinctive scarring," Sylvia noted, moving the cloth down the strong column of his neck. Her touch was clinical yet somehow comfortably personal, each stroke of the cloth washing away not only dirt and blood but also, it seemed to Clive, layers of the solitude he'd wrapped around himself like armor. The heat remained even as the cleaning solution dried, and when he crinkled his forehead in thought, he could feel the air tickle against the cleaned, short fuzz there. She was cleaning him. "This is too much," he began to protest, feeling self-conscious at the extend that she was going to help him. "I don't need this, I can hop in the water-" "Deep breath," she said, interrupting him calmly but sternly. She had reached his chest, examining a particular pattern of bruising that spread across his left side. Clive complied, wincing as his ribs expanded. "Two cracked ribs," she diagnosed. She had no need of responding to his previous anxious statements. "Not broken completely, but in need of binding after we've finished cleaning you up." She continued her ministrations, working down his arms, carefully navigating around his injured shoulder. Her movements were rhythmic and soothing, the warm cloth passing over his hide with gentle pressure. Despite his initial embarrassment, Clive found himself yielding to her care, his eyes half-closing as tension he'd carried for weeks dissolved into a pleasant, exhausted stupor. "Turn slightly," Sylvia directed when she reached his midsection. "I need to examine your back." Clive shifted as instructed, openly presenting his broad back to her. He heard her soft intake of breath before her paw came to rest between his shoulder blades. "How long have you had this?" she asked, her voice carrying a new note of concern. "Had what?" Clive attempted to glance over his shoulder, a movement that sent fresh pain radiating from his dislocated joint. "Don't move," she said quickly, then more gently: "There's an arrowhead embedded near the small of your back. The entry wound has partially healed around it—suggests it's been there for at least a month, possibly longer." Clive frowned, searching his memory. "There was a skirmish with some territorial hunters at the last full moon. A little over four weeks ago, I suppose. I felt something hit me, but in the chaos... I suppose I never realized anything had remained behind." "You never checked?" Sylvia's tone held no judgment, only professional curiosity. The stallion's ears flicked in embarrassment. "It stopped hurting after a day or two. I've grown accustomed to constant aches. One more hardly registered." "And of course you have no travelling companions who would notice." Sylvia's sigh carried notes of both sympathy and exasperation. "This will need to come out, but with the tissue already healing around it, that means it will hurt considerably more than it would have, if it had been addressed immediately." "Do what you must," Clive said, attempting nonchalance despite the apprehension flooding his system. She moved away briefly, returning with several additional implements, including a pair of bamboo tongs and a glossy green leaf rolled into a tube. "Try to remain still," she instructed, squeezing the tube and applying a cold, jellied salve around the embedded arrowhead. An immediate chilling, numbing sensation spread across Clive's lower neck, seeping outwards as the skin went numb. He could still feel the imbedded thing, now that she had brought his attention to it, but the inflamed heat that he had grown used to that suffused the flesh around it was relaxing and dissipating. He fixed his gaze on the dancing flames of the campfire, focusing on their hypnotic movement as he felt Sylvia's fingers probing gently around the wound. The bamboo tongs were situated, and he felt her fingers as they gently twisted and tied a silk strip aroung the tongs, binding them tighter and tiger around the arrowhead. "Deep breath in," she directed, her voice steady. "Hold it. And... release." As he exhaled, Clive felt a sharp, searing pain followed by an odd sensation of pressure releasing. Then, the sensation of heated fluid, drooling down along his spine. His head spun, expecting the pain to last longer, to burn brighter, but other than the sharp sting of air against exposed flesh, the pain was already dissipating. Clive shifted, feeling the fluid dripping down over his buttocks, but otherwise felt no need to move. "There," Sylvia said, and he heard the soft clink of metal as she set the bloody arrowhead onto the wooden log by his thigh. "Barbed hunting point. No wonder your body couldn't expel it naturally." She applied more of the numbing salve to the now-open wound, her touch gentle but confident. "You're fortunate it didn't work its way deeper or become more infected." "Lucky me," Clive muttered, though without real bitterness. The relief of having the foreign object removed was immediate and significant, a pain he'd grown so accustomed to that he'd stopped registering its presence. He knew he was bleeding, but even that felt good. He knew his body was flushing out toxins, backed up toxins that he didn't even know he had been harboring. "Yes, lucky you," Sylvia agreed, unironically. "Many aren't as fortunate." She finished bandaging the wound, her paws moving with practiced efficiency. "Now, let's continue." She resumed her cleansing ministrations, working her way down his powerful legs, treating each scrape and cut with the same methodical care. The stallion's massive frame dwarfed her, yet there was something in her confident movements that made her seem the larger presence. Clive found himself increasingly aware of how long it had been since anyone had touched him with such deliberate, healing intent. She nodded in acknowledgment, then turned her attention to the final area requiring treatment. Her eyes dropped briefly to his groin, where his earlier arousal had subsided somewhat during the more painful portion of her ministrations. "There are injuries here as well that require attention," she stated matter-of-factly. "The base of your tail shows signs of abrasion, and there appears to be mild inflammation around your sheath." Clive's ears immediately flattened again, the brief comfort he'd achieved evaporating into renewed self-consciousness. "That's... I'm sure it's fine," he stammered, his good hand moving instinctively to cover himself once more. Sylvia met his gaze directly, neither advancing nor retreating. "Infection shows no respect for modesty," she said simply. "But I won't proceed without your permission." Their eyes held for a long moment, Clive searching her expression for any sign of mockery or ulterior motive. He found only the same straightforward competence she'd displayed throughout their encounter—yet perhaps, beneath that, a genuine concern that further disarmed him. This wasn't a trick, a scheme to get her hands around his equipment. She was simply being practical. "Very well," he conceded finally, his voice barely above a whisper as he lowered his protective hand. Sylvia knelt between his powerful legs, dipping her cloth into the herbal solution once more. "Lean forward," she said, and her hand rested on his back, pressing him forward. He complied, folding down and baring himself to her as she stood behind him. With the same methodical care she'd shown to his other injuries, she began cleaning the sensitive area where his tail joined his body. One tail held his tail up, lifting it to the left, and to the right, as the warm suds soaked into the raw skin, soothing the chafed skin. He couldn't tell her how that had happened, and fortunately, she didn't ask. She either knew, already, or didn't deem it relevant. His cheeks flushed hot and red as she daubed and cleaned at his nether regions, but there was nothing sexual or embarrassing about it. She was simply... handling him. She knelt down, dunking the rag into the steaming pot and wringing, soaking and rinsing it. She turned back to him, and pushed up against his chest, silently guiding him to sit back up. He did so, staring back down at her, as she reached between his legs. Her hands cupped against his testicles, and Clive sucked in a sharp breath. The sensation was electric, hot and tight and sudden, not from pain but from the sudden, intimate contact. Her paws were warm, competent, and unhurried as she examined the heavy organs for signs of injury. "These appear unharmed," she observed, her clinical tone at odds with the intimate nature of her touch. "Well-formed and healthy." Despite his attempts at mental discipline, Clive's body responded to her touch. Urgently. His member thickened upwards, curling into a proud spire, the base and primal part of his brain eager to demonstrate itself to a potential mate. The warm, pleasant stroke of her sodden hot rag against his inner thighs didn't help, as she cleaned the crease of his thighs and bathed his testicles in the hot rough lapping of what, to his base brain, felt like a tiger's hot tongue. He groaned at that, embarrassed at the response, but not as much as he was of the proud equine member that stood proudly for her admiration. "I apologize," he managed, mortification heating his face. "It's been... some time since..." "No apology necessary," Sylvia interrupted, her voice maintaining its professional calm despite the undeniable intimacy of the moment. She regarded his growing erection with the same assessing eye she'd given his other attributes. "You have an impressive endowment. It's proportionate to your frame, well formed and quite natural looking." The matter-of-fact compliment somehow intensified both his embarrassment and his arousal. His member continued to swell under her gaze, reaching its full, considerable length. "I don't expect... that is, I know you're not offering..." Clive stumbled over his words, caught between desire and the certainty that he was misinterpreting her professional care. Sylvia's paw moved to rest lightly on his thigh, the touch neither provocative nor retreating. "You've endured significant physical stress," she said. "Your body carries tension in every muscle. There are multiple approaches to healing, some more conventional than others." Her eyes met his directly. "Would you allow me to help you release some of that tension?" Clive stared at her, his brain struggling to process her offer. "You want... but why would you...?" "I want nothing from you but for you to heal," she stated simply. "And healing... takes many forms. Sometimes physical release is as medicinal as any herb or poultice." The stallion swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with quickened breath. A lifetime of expecting ulterior motives, of being valued only for his strength or utility, had not prepared him for this straightforward offer of pleasure without demand. "I don't know what to say," he admitted finally. "You need say nothing," Sylvia replied, her paw moving slowly, giving him ample time to withdraw or object. When he didn't, her fingers wrapped gently around the base of his erection. "Simply allow yourself to enjoy this." Her touch was expert, as she handled him. Her fingers were wet, and hotter than they should be - from the hot brew in her pot, of course. The sensation was like fire on his attention starved cock. She handled him with the pressure he craved, but with the care and respect of his sensitivity not to overwhelm him. He sighed, spreading his thighs more, his balls relaxing enough to settle on top of the wooden bench as he stared at the beautiful female fox handling his equipment. She worked her paw along his length with steady, unhurried strokes, her other hand coming to rest against his chest, feeling the thundering rhythm of his heart beneath her palm. Her fingers splayed, and she gently stroked his chest there, in a soothing and reassuring way. He reached up with his good hand, and held her hand with his, simply holding it as she held him down below. This connection helped him relax, helped him sink into the sensations and enjoy himself. His head fell back, his eyes closing as sensation overwhelmed thought. His hooves pushed themselves into the earth beneath him, his powerful body responding to her ministrations with increasing urgency. It had been so long since anyone had touched him so intimately, and longer still since that touch had been born of kindness rather than lust. "That's it," Sylvia encouraged, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the rising tide of his arousal. "You carry so much within you. Allow some of it to release." Her strokes increased in tempo, her fingers shifting gradually in their strokes to grip around the underside of his shaft, just below the glans. She was no doubt responding to the subtle cues of his body, cues he wasn't even aware of, but he knew that she knew exactly what she was doing. He didn't have to doubt this interaction, her intentions, or worry about what happened next. All he needed, what they both wanted from him, was to simply climax. He couldn't understand how he had gone from crashing through the briars to being jerked off by a fox witch, but he didn't have the brain power to contemplate it. Her paw moved in soothing circles across his chest, the dual sensations creating a harmony of comfort and stimulation that unraveled the tightly wound core of his being. When his climax came, it was a cresting wave that broke through defenses long maintained. His voice spilled from his throat, saying something he did not hear, his hips thrusting upwards, his tail flagged and his ears pulled back tightly against his head. His seed spilled outwards and upwards, jetting into the open air before splattering down onto the earth beneath them. Each pulse drew tension from his body, pulses of fluid that drained the stress from him poison from a freshly opened wound. Sylvia's movements slowed but didn't cease, guiding him through each wave of pleasure until the final tremors subsided. "Fuck," he said, his head lowered almost to his chest, his breathing heavy, his dick still twitching in the fingers of the fox who softly gripped, tugged against it. He opened his eyes, staring at her fingers handling his shaft so lewdly and yet so practically, fingers twined around the underside of his glans as the last oozing dregs of his climax seeped out from inside him. His cheeks began to burn, as he realized what he had done - climaxed in front of this female who had only treated him nicely, who had only wanted to help him. Strangely, just for this one time, his natural reaction to care, to stress, to fuss... remained dormant. That manic paranoid defensive part of him was simply too exhausted to rear up its ugly head and make itself known. Clive stretched his limbs, as Sylvie began to stroke and clean his shaft with the cooled, wet, rough towel. He shuddered at the scratchy feeling of it, but it was pleasant, and it helped his softening phallus to retract back into his sheath. His body felt impossibly heavy, limbs weighted with a pleasant lassitude that made even the thought of movement seem distant and unnecessary. The pain that had been his constant companion for weeks remained, but dulled now, pushed to the periphery by the flooding warmth of release. "I can't..." he began, then realized he lacked the words to express the transformation that had occurred within him. "You needn't try to stand," Sylvia assured him, as she dropped the cloth back into the pot with a soft splash. "Your body has endured much and needs rest more than anything now." With gentle guidance, she helped him shift position, guiding him to leave the bench and to lay down on his bedroll. No, not his bedroll, this was clearly made for someone else, and his body's considerable length was barely contained by its dimensions. The fire crackled nearby, its warmth a constant presence against the cooling night air. Clive felt consciousness slipping from him, the combination of exhaustion, pain relief, and profound release conspiring to pull him toward sleep. He fought it briefly, feeling there was something important he should say, some way to acknowledge what had transpired between them. "Thank you," he managed, the words inadequate but sincere. Sylvia's paw came to rest briefly on his forehead, a gentle touch that soothed the last of his resistance. "Rest now," she murmured, her voice following him down into the gathering darkness of sleep. "The morning will arrive soon enough, with all its demands and decisions. For now, simply allow yourself to heal." As consciousness faded, Clive surrendered to her wisdom and to the unfamiliar sensation of safety her presence provided. His breathing deepened, his massive frame finally relaxing completely as sleep claimed him. It was, for once, a sleep untroubled, and he found himself not in darkness or dreams but somewhere else, a place where he simple was, inside himself and of himself, at peace. The fire burned low, casting its gentle light across the clearing. Sylvia remained seated beside him, her fingers scratching a feather into parchment, leaving notes of some eldritch design at the end of a journal that she had filled with other such entries, her presence a constant guard against the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. And so, Clive slept, his battered body beginning its work of mending, the warrior having found respite in the unexpected haven of a stranger's compassion.