The dogs, copies of one another in black and white, watch him as he flounders about. The larger one, a male with a large white front, growls again, his ears going flat against his skull. The smaller dog turns her head and touches noses with him. The cat, however, remains aloof and unflappable, untouched by the tantrum made by the cat smelling human. She could care less, really – her spot is secured. 

As he struggles against the pain, the attention of first the smaller and then the larger dog both go intensely toward the door. Ears up, they remain laying down, but the male licks his lips and the female brushes the floor slightly with a gentle wag of the tail which silences for her to tilt her head and cock an ear toward the door. 

With a clump, the door opens. Wren has a feed bag over his back and he grunts as he swings inside, letting the door close behind him. He heaves the bag off of his shoulder, setting it to the floor, then gives a low, “Hup, Annie.” 

The smaller dog is up and at his side, her body curled around his leg as she tries to be near and yet to be tucked into herself as well, her ears flat and her head down in a show of submission as she bares her teeth at him. 

He is a large man, filling the door quite easily. His broad shoulders are covered in a thickly woven, well worn woolen cloak and he brings with him the smell of lanolin and the world outside. He bends and places one large hand on the dog's head, then stands and undoes the clasp on his cloak, looking across to where his guest is now leaning heavily on the lounge. 

“You're awake,” he says calmly as he turns and hangs up the cloak on a wooden peg by the door. “I expect you'd like some willow bark tea or some such.” He turns his dark eyes on the man there, considering him for a moment before he walks from the door toward the other side of the long room. There, a rudimentary table sits with three chairs at it, each chair showing signs of a different carver. Upon the table is a spray of dried herb in a clay bowl and along the wall, a heavy, mahogany side table sets, far more fine than anything else in the cottage. This he opens and pulls out a long box which he sets atop the side table and opens, drawing out a vial and a linen pouch. Setting these to the side, he reaches back into the side table and returns to his work with a large, rough tea pot into which he pours some few drops from the vial and adds the contents of the linen pouch. 

When he has everything in the cup, he returns the pouch and closes the box, then puts the box back into the side table. All of the actions are unhurried and he does not look at his guest once during the time, though the animals are all very much fixed on him. 

With a breath of thought, pursed through his lips, the man slips beyond the eye of his guest into a side room which, had Chall been able to see, is in truth the kitchen and pantry, and is back in moments with a dipperful of water in a kettle which he walks into the main room with and sets on a hook and swings out over the fire. Then he drops to one knee and refeeds the fire, blowing on it until it is recovered. 

Only when all of this is done does he twist at the waist, one hand on his knee, the other on the larger dog's side, and look at his guest. He is all hair, this man. He has a beard about his face and his hair is a mass about his head, curls and waves tousled about one another. His eyes are dark and in the shadow of the house, seem almost black. His skin, too, is dark with weather and he does not smile, but regards Chall with the same patience as the smaller dog. Under his hand, the larger dog presses a nose to his master's thigh. 

“Are you feeling better? Marge did a little witchery, none to be overly concerned with, on your arm. She felt it was best to not tempt fate with such a deep wound. They can be deceptive. Give it a couple of days and you'll be right as rain.” he stands then but does not approach, not yet sure of what manner of needs his guest will have. A knife wound could mean a great many things.