The trek isn't far, the shed visible on the dirt path wide enough for two. They pass the enclosures for high-land cows and alpinas, the docile creatures flicking their ears toward him before resuming their grazing. His gaze sweeps quickly, always assessing for threats but settling back on the path ahead. He doesn't even look towards Colt as she speaks, grunting at her question. "Allogaita'?"
His jaw flickers beneath his beard, clenched in momentary thought. "Oi'd not recommend fhiya." Not with the season having eaten away so much of the forest already. Grimm's boot steps soundlessly against the path, his deep voice the only sound he makes as they approach the shed door. "Git ye someone 'ho cin smell 'em." There's no lock on the wooden structure, the door pushing open easily to reveal the dark interior full of tools, dried herbs, and small vials. "Then pin 'em from the tawp," he continues, adding gruffly, "Don' let thei' teieth git ya. Narsty boites." Particularly when they twist and threaten to shred everything to the bone.
Grimm doesn't even turn on a light, his adjusted eyes scanning the shelf of disorganized glass. Some are labeled with nothing more than a picture or a color while others hold a few scrawling words of purpose: boils, poison, black hooves, smelly breath. He grabs the one labeled 'horn rot' and swishes it to make sure there's enough inside for Colt's herd then offers it forward. "'ere. Keep the infected awaiy from the othas." The dim light makes it hard to see the scarring revealed by his movement, but Grimm doesn't hide it anyways, the strange circles and slashes puckered against the tan skin while he waits for her to take the vial.
His jaw flickers beneath his beard, clenched in momentary thought. "Oi'd not recommend fhiya." Not with the season having eaten away so much of the forest already. Grimm's boot steps soundlessly against the path, his deep voice the only sound he makes as they approach the shed door. "Git ye someone 'ho cin smell 'em." There's no lock on the wooden structure, the door pushing open easily to reveal the dark interior full of tools, dried herbs, and small vials. "Then pin 'em from the tawp," he continues, adding gruffly, "Don' let thei' teieth git ya. Narsty boites." Particularly when they twist and threaten to shred everything to the bone.
Grimm doesn't even turn on a light, his adjusted eyes scanning the shelf of disorganized glass. Some are labeled with nothing more than a picture or a color while others hold a few scrawling words of purpose: boils, poison, black hooves, smelly breath. He grabs the one labeled 'horn rot' and swishes it to make sure there's enough inside for Colt's herd then offers it forward. "'ere. Keep the infected awaiy from the othas." The dim light makes it hard to see the scarring revealed by his movement, but Grimm doesn't hide it anyways, the strange circles and slashes puckered against the tan skin while he waits for her to take the vial.
Grimm
Warriors don't show their heart until the axe reveals it.
