A small, wooden crate – and just a crate – makes its way into the hospital tent in Greywatch. Bumping and hopping, it shoulders the tent flap aside (if it can be said to have shoulders) and crunches its way past the nurse at the door, with a low snarl at her surprised protest. Point made, grumbling and growling to itself, it picks a bare spot of ground and, for lack of a better word, “horks” up a good dozen, small, crystal vials filled with a blood red, slightly viscous fluid.
It snaps irritably at any assistant or soldier that gets too close during the process.
Then, extending a remarkably long tongue, it – licks- a note onto a table near a bed, eats a pillow absently, and, with an extended belch, leaves.
The note reads – in Draeneic, written in a careful hand –
I am spelling your name wrong, I know, and I am terribly sorry. You can correct me tomorrow morning.
I thought your patients could use these, and I had to cut the silver leaf back anyway. It was being very grabby. Silly plant.
Regardless, these should help your patients mend. No more than half a bottle for a human, and, yes, they can drink it, but it’s better on the wound. Don’t get it in your eyes – it sometimes makes people see… Er. Things.
With affection –