on the malevolence of reality

His bindings were beginning to grow itchy, which meant they were needing a change. The gilded prince grunted softly to himself as he hobbled to the spot in his den where he kept the fresh linens and splints. Peabody trailed after him, clawed hands shifting nervously against one another. The perks of being a heavily built optional-biped, he could carry a few things if needed. So when Stratum handed him a few thick, twigless branches he accepted them readily.

"You should get that brother of yours to check on the healing progress." The pangolin commented, voice incredibly soft and quiet. He didn't have a big mouth, he wasn't meant for shouting. The hulking male grunted, mouth full of linen wrappings and thus not suited to conversation. When he finally flopped down on his well-worn bedding, he let loose a short howl as the wrap tumbled onto his forelegs. If Crux was around he could show up, but Stratum wasn't in much of a mood to hear that he'd never fight again.

Fun fact, pangolins can claw through solid stone. Which means those sharp, hooked claws could easily shred the old, soiled splint. The atrophied muscle beneath showed a wretched mess of a leg. The skin was inflamed from friction, Stratum never stopped moving and so his fur had been worn away where the splint made contact. He prodded the portion of his lower leg where he knew the break to be, wincing at the contact with his raw skin and tender, healing bone. He growled under his breath, a low and terrible sound that would keep away even the bravest souls.