By the time he reached the bag of flour, perhaps one minute after he had left, Morfran griffith sat down in a stool. The extra minute or so of respite would only serve to help his friend. Him throwing insults at the Head of House and her resonating with cold fury couldn’t be helping. Besides, he didn’t know what to do. He had latched on to the gathering of flour as something that he could do to be helpful, even though he knew that it was practically useless. Perthyn Wendigo simply wasn’t bleeding enough for the flour to do much of anything. And so he had resorted to talking and rambling and talking some more. At least he hadn’t fired a spell off at her.
He slowly sunk his face into his hands, and thought a lot about what his next move should be. Seconds droned on, and the man decided to give himself a one minute time limit. If he didn’t figure out what to do in one minute, he was going to go back and wing it, come hell or high water. He wasn’t leaving his friend in there alone with a woman like that. He had only done it in the first place because he was reasonably certain that she had been this mad about the creature not being okay. He rolled his eyes as he raised his head and looked about him. Most of his creatures didn’t look okay. She would have conniptions if she ever came in here and he knew it.
That and her few words. Those few words bugged him. She had other things in mind? Now, usually Griffith would know what that meant, coming from a lady in the private of a room. But the cold fury a second ago made him not only think that he got it wrong, but think that he was going slightly insane just thinking the other possibility. It was a joke, or a miscommunication. Had to have been. And that last line was just referring to how everything about him disgusted her so much that his confidence was the only good thing. Insulting by complimenting, or something. By the time Griffith had run through that, however, his self inflicted one minute time limit expired and he found himself hurrying back.
It was a mental problem, he knew that. If it was a physical malady, Perthyn Wendigo would just have to be killed, and then revived good as new. There was nothing he could do, not really. He could be the bird’s friend, he could provide the bird with a safe home, food and water and anything else the wonderful creature desired within the reasonable confines of a rather tight budget. But he couldn’t cure the bird, not really. Maybe over time, sure. But if that woman was expecting him to just pull a miraculous cure out of his hat then she was terribly mistaken.
He resolved to be much calmer, and just to tell the woman what was going on. She would understand, and then leave. Or stay and be a bother, but at this point in time, did it really matter? It had only taken him about 3 minutes, maybe 4 when he returned, slipping through the door with a small bag of flour, which he poured over the offending feathers. Not a lot, but enough. The bleeding stopped after only a few seconds, and that was the end of it. He walked back to one of the chairs, and sat down, looking across from him at his friend, and the woman who held him.
“I take care of magical creature. Look, if this was a physical problem I’d be all over it. But it’s not. There’s nothing wrong with his body. It’s mental. Near as I can tell it’s like PTSD. I keep him calm, and safe. I appreciate your concern for him, but there’s not much you can do. He’s calm now, so I don’t even need a calming spell, or potion, or whatever you do. Really, all he needs now is some rest.”
After a brief pause, he continued.
“I do have other creatures that need care, and I would very much like to get back to my job...”
At least this time, he had restrained himself to a mere suggestion this time. Honestly, since he got all confused by those two comments she had made he didn’t really feel angry, he felt more uncomfortable than anything. Morfran wasn’t good at hiding a lot of things, but at least he could hide his anxiety. That was something any creature could sense, and it made a lot of them panic. One of the reasons he had this second door was to stop angry intruders from disturbing the already dubious peace.
However, shortly after he said that, a very clearly heard whimper was heard from behind the door. Griffith mentally facepalmed, but his eyes darted to the second door. And then back to the woman. He should probably learn her name, to be honest.
“Are we done here? Are you satisfied?”
He was so close to following that up with your highness it physically hurt him not to. But he decided it was worth a swallowing of pride to make her leave him be. There was nothing she could do, anyway.
“Evil isn’t the real threat to the world. Stupid is just as destructive as Evil, maybe more so, and it’s a hell of a lot more common. What we really need is a crusade against Stupid. That might actually make a difference.”