Northstar Vale plenty of folk want our kind dead

Mercifully, he passed out.

Meadow continued her work—gentle as she could be, and yet hoping to keep swift in her motions. The moss would be cleaned with water, the wound dressed as best she could. Only when the blood began to ebb would she begin mixing a paste—and only when she had smoothed the concoction to him would she make use of web and sap, hoping to keep the wound from reopening.

She settled nearby while he slept—a body’s response when desperate for healing. Snow would softly fall—as if hinting that life could be peaceful and beautiful, though it felt neither in that moment. She would wait for him to waken—and if he was well enough, he would need to leave their borders.