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Despite her disappointment in not being able to join Donnelaith alongside her great bear of a brother, the soot-stockinged Ansbjørn found that her gray mood was short lived — she had never seen the ocean before, and her intention was to visit it and frolic in the granules that looked from this distance as if they ought to feel like churned snow. There were lessons to be learned and joys to be found in all things, even in rejection — plans were meant for changing and agendas for revising. She hummed a tune she’d heard once — “birds flying high, you know how I feel; sun in the sky, you know how I feel,” — and drew a deep breath, setting it free on a rich, rolling laugh. The world was wide and she was a foolish young girl, despite her big-boned, buxom musculature; she would find a place for herself elsewhere and visit Lærke as often as she dared. All was well.

A sudden cry went up, the voice low and masculine, and although the call was not for her, the note of urgency spurred Lotte’s long legs into purposeful motion. Medicinal knowledge was Tove’s area — Lotte was a damage dealer and a warrior — but she possessed enough of it to be useful instead of detrimental in most situations. Tipping back her head, she heralded her appearance with a melodic, undulating howl — she was not one of the requested parties, but perhaps this was a sign that she was going somewhere she was meant to be. Grabbing up some sphagnum moss, for Lotte’s rudimentary knowledge was in wounds sustained in battle and therefore specifically for rips, tears, and cuts, the argent-eyed girl ambled over the unfamiliar terrain she’d traversed not long ago and soon came upon the scent of blood, metallic and fresh.

What was that plant that Tove always kept handy? Echinacea was the best one, and it was easy enough to come by if one knew what to look for — but Lotte hadn’t brought any with her. She did, however, come across some marigold flowers that would prove useful enough, and a few sparse sprigs of yarrow. Tove usually crushed them between her teeth and then applied them to the wounds after they were cleaned, then covered the wounds over with oak leaves. Shrugging, Lotte tucked the moss under her chin to hold against the thick cowl of ash fur that ringed her neck and shoved the celandine and the yarrow into her mouth, beginning to chew. It was probably fine that she was mixing medications, right? Right. Well — Tove wasn’t here, and clearly neither was anybody else with the correct knowledge, so Lotte was what Scimitar would get.

She arrived on the scene with her mouth full, her bright mercury eyes glimmering friendliness, and used the poor, battered, unconscious wolf as a temporary coffee table, spitting the ball of herbs onto his hip alongside the moss. “Rakeet, wolf of the wood!” she said, her low, rich voice warm with unsung laughter despite the gravity of the situation. Her Finnish accent, though not prominent, caressed each syllable with a melodic lilt. “My sister Tove is the one with the true healing knowledge, but here I am to do what I can!” She peered at the sodden mess of wolf. “This one is old,” she remarked of the wound on his nape, “and infected.” She bent to his body, her fangs expertly closing over his various limbs, checking the bones for breakage, but it seemed that his wounds, although grave, were largely of flesh and muscle. It was possible there was a break here or there, but his ribs seemed intact. “A moment,” she begged, and lumbered off with the moss in her mouth. Finding a nearby source of freshwater, she submerged herself and the moss, then carefully returned.

“Ai, he burns with fever,” she clucked, and used the water cascading from her body to sluice over the wounds. With the moss she cleared away the purulent material from the neck wound, making a moue of distaste at the foul odor and strings of white that came away. She was so absorbed in her work that she quite forgot she had an audience.