Willowpaw guessed that experienced medicine cats could tell what problems their patients had right away, by the way they entered the den. An apprentice with a thorn in his paw didn't mind letting the entire Clan know about it, holding the affected paw high in the air and giving an exaggerated yowl with every step; a queen whose kit had a cough would carry them in with a look of concern that, most likely, far outweighed the actual seriousness of their son or daughter's condition; and a warrior bringing an injured comrade in from battle carried themselves with the air of restrained urgency that was necessary for war. She knew because she'd seen all of this before, repeatedly; in fact, she'd been through each herself.
Today, though, it wouldn't take a medicine cat to see what her problem was. Standing in the entrance of the den, her tail lay lifeless behind her, almost dragging against the earth, and her gaze was cast firmly downward as if it took a heroic effort to make eye contact. Despondency practically came off of her in waves.
"S-salixtwist? Grantedwishes?" Her voice was quiet and trembling - "can I talk to one of you?" - and the way she spoke resembled a shy kit facing a stranger.