"Hello, Clark," Oisin offered warmly, his smile slight, but genuine. He kept his distance, for a moment or two at least, letting Tom get at least a little of the crowding fraternal concern out of his system; but he kept watch, studying the way that Clark moved, and breathed, and spoke. His words were a little muffled - a few hits to the face would do that to a person - but they didn't seem slurred, or punch-drunk, at least not as far as Oisin't limited insight could glean. There was clearly some pain as he breathed, a broken rib or two for certain; but the blood at the corners of Clark's mouth was already drying, and nothing fresh or bubbled had joined it in the last few moments. A cracked rib then, but hopefully not a broken one. That was good news: the lesser Clark's injuries, the more they fell within the scope of Oisin's limited abilities. He'd have to do most of the healing on his own, of course - Oisin was only a wick; he couldn't work miracles - but at least he could take the edge off, and make the injuries that Clark would need to recover from a little less intense.
As Clark offered his thanks, Oisin took that as his invitation to draw closer. He didn't impose himself between the brothers, but he did make sure that he positioned himself within Tom's peripheral vision, a silent warning and reminder to Tom of where they were, whose domain this was, and who would be calling the shots within these walls.
"Try and breathe gently," he offered, softly, calmly, hoping that his tone of voice would catch on not just with Clark, but with Tom as well. Soft voices lessened their chances of being discovered by those on the floors above, yes, but softer voices also often came hand in hand with cooler heads, and that was something of which the Cookes were often in abundant need. "It looks like you might have cracked a rib or two. Can you show me where?"
Clark nodded, and over the next few minutes, Oisin examined the young man, and described his story to the mona, emploring them with gentle words to begin setting bone and stitching flesh, softening the sharp edge of severity from Clark's various wounds. With each sentence he struck a bargain, once again trading the healing the mona were providing to him across to where their attention was more greatly needed, exchanging the burning, blossoming pain in Oisin's own shoulder for the visibly lessening pain painted across Clark's face. He felt Clark's breathing begin to ease, just as he began to feel himself becoming short of breath; satisfied that he had done all he could for now, he took a step back, and with a table's help eased himself stiffly back to his feet.
After a moment of pause he gathered himself, withdrawing a few steps further away from Clark, and beckoning for Tom to follow. Oisin found his way to the mop and bucket and took hold, leaning against it as a subtle, makeshift crutch, for his mind as much as for his momentarily weary body. "He took a beating," Oisin offered, keeping his voice low, "But it was definitely that: a beating. Whoever did this wasn't out to kill anyone, they were just trying to send a message - albeit quite an emphatic one. The question is -" He glanced back over his shoulder towards Clark. "- was Clark the intended recipient, or just the messenger?"