The Tin Man has paused in his circuits around Beqanna, back at the river where he stops at from time to time. The plague is taking a while to heal up, for him and some of the others; he wouldn't know if his personal case is from wandering more than usual, and that was usually to try and find steadier food after the cataclysms that happened to the land. Maybe he just caught a worse case of it than some horses did.

But nobody really avoids him, for the plague is cured now. Neither he nor the others are spreading it, and his feverish smell and stubborn nosebleeds aren't cause for (too much) alarm. After the last cases of infection have healed up, there will be no more of it.

He doesn't know how he knows that last part; he hasn't stayed long enough in one place for anyone to tell him so. It sits at the back of his awareness, whenever he gets too feverish and melancholy. Maybe he's absorbed some of the magic lying around, after all.

The stallion stops to drink, but after a few gulps, he has an unpleasant surprise: Another nosebleed, sending pink and salty threads through the water. But if he didn't notice until now, he muses, at least it's a lighter nosebleed.

He dunks his head into the water as deep as he can, to get it nice and wet--the better to cool off whatever needs to stop bleeding--then shakes himself out and starts grazing. It'll be a few minutes before he can drink.