The sounds coming from Alloran continue to be bad. Except for a few more bones, it's mostly a soft, fleshy, liquid assortment of noises. During part of it he's gasping audibly through changing airways. Morphing is painless and does indeed undo injuries, but it's an unpredictable and unpleasant process to witness through any sense. His morphing is, anyway. There are individuals who can control the change and find ways to make it beautiful, to a point.

Some of the insects attracted to the silvery blood are moths drawn to its reflected moonlight. They flutter against it and it sticks to them, pulling them down.

When his morph completes, Alloran climbs to his hooves and shakes out his tail. Traces of bielevard blood cling to the mane that runs down his chest and hangs from his barrel, but he's left most of it on the ground. He closes his main eyes, stalk eyes standing watchful out from his head, and breathes hard, almost silently and with his sides visibly moving. Morphing is effort, flying is effort, carrying someone is effort, and he is out of shape.

<I'm done. Saturday, you were hurt? How bad is it.>