Phantom Hollow Der Winter wird auf den Wangen,

@Awenfen

ever onward; her gate has slowed to a stilted walk and yet she can not stop. the woods has grown quiet here, pale and reverent. the world holds its breath here, or, does she? she must not stop, for the wraith will soon arrive. her destination does not matter. 

crimson, bright against dark feathers; no, fur. not bright, but turned darker around the edges, resigning itself now to being outside her veins. has she not been here before? shadows stretch, set within them are eyes of crimson slashed with ice. the shadow rights herself, straightening, standing. a moment, and then she is in motion again.

A wood greets her in the southern steppes, an embodiment of ominence, home to shadows and silent as the grave. A colorless place, awash in all shades of dark and grey but never light. 

The Otherworld, or one of the many, feels close in this place. A shiver wracks the sighthound - despite summer's warm touch - and she picks up the pace. 

Silly as it may seem, the midwife has no desire to slumber in this deceased glen - doubts whether she could even manage. 

Ahead, the shadows flicker with movement and the pale hart stops in her tracks. Despite the fear that has suddenly clogged her gullet, Fen dares to call out. 

"'ello?"

moonlight cuts through the canopy, wavering, faint. but there ahead it grows strong, until it grows and warps into the form of an almost wolf. her path cuts toward it now, for it seems the opposite of the dark and she will not allow herself to slip into that, not yet. 

she steps out of the cover of the long shadows, panting lightly as coal-dark gaze finds the stranger. she falls motionless, expectant. auds seep back; at her neck, fresh blood oozes from ragged lacerations.

Opalites, as out of place in the phantom wood as the pallid face they resided in, squinted against the pressing darkness as shadows shifted and swam - birthing a woman opposite her, a darkling of the fen, of the very night mayhaps. 

A soft gasp escaped her. "Oh! 'ello."

"Mi'lady, are ye alrigh'?" The botanist murmured quietly after a moment, concern evident on her soft features as her gaze landed upon the ruby strands glittering within her pelt like the eyes of so many dangerous creatures watching from the fringes. 

She dared to take a step or two in the woman's direction. "Might I 'elp ye?"

her words are lyrical; it takes her heavy mind a moment longer to sift through them. she wavers, failing to respond in time to the first query, and yet in that state of mind to dip her muzzle in acceptance of her offer. had the night not been conspiring to smoother her, the earth to pull her down, she would have wondered a moment at the elven sliver of moonlight before her, stepping lightly through a world that did not entirely seem to be her own. 

as it is, she can only move to perch on hindquarters, forelimb trembling, unnoticed, with exhaustion. carefully, she angles her neck toward the woman; displaying there the savage mess of rent flesh and blood. it is chance that had spared her jugular; regardless, her heart struggled to push her lowered blood volume through her veins.

The darkling agrees, as mute as Fen had been rumored to be - another life, inconsequential now, in this moment. 

The botanist seems to shift, undergo some metamorphosis as she draws near on silent steps - a confidence in her gait, an efficiency to her movements, collected calm painted over her pale mask. 

Twisting, she pulls the worn pelt from its perch atop her shoulder blades. The remaining herbs left to her pharmacopoeia scatter to the ground, ivory paws flashing in the gloom as she pawed through them with only a touch of franticness. 

Goldenrod and cherville, into her pink maw they go, chewed quickly and then unceremoniously spat on the corvid's weeping throat. 

It was the rabbit fur itself she wound around the woman's nape tenderly, thick and absorbent - better equipped to ebb the bleeding than thin cobwebs. 

"Dandelion leaves, mi'lady, fer ze shock," she wisped as she nudged the medicine in her latest patient's direction. 

"I know ye may nae be able, or up ta, talking right now but I must admit..I 'ave a great reluctance ta leave ye on yer own, mi'lady," the midwife expressed with great concern. 

Perhaps this was a sign of fate from the stars, without finding each other the darkling would have surely bled to death. Maybe she'd crossed Awenfen's path for a reason, yet unseen.

the moonlight grows nearer, and though familiar wariness prickles along her spine, she can not afford mistrust in this moment. the sylph twists; something comes unbound, spilling onto the earth. she watches her movements; confident, sure, and yet laced with haste as she moves. understanding even through the fog that has come down to take residence within her skull, the corvid tilts her neck back again, soft sound leaving her throat at the dull throbbing of pain. 

she remains still as the woman works, silent save for sharp exhalations of breath when the pain becomes enough to overcome the dulling effect of shock and blood loss. once more does the woman speak, offering familiar leaves, somewhat wilted. gingerly, moving with great care as to not upset the pelt wrapped over her throat, the wraith moves to mouth the plants, swallowing them with no small amount of discomfort. 

her thoughts drift, half-formed and quickly fading, though as the moonbeam speaks she knows she too harbours no desire to part from her. " thank you. " nothing more than a breath of wind, hitched and hoarse. her eyelids are heavy, and she slides somewhat toward the earth that seems so eager to pull her down within it.

Visibly, she relaxed after achieving the black pearl's agreement. Milky eyelids fluttered as they sheltered moonstones, a sigh of relief exhaling through scarred, once-split lips. 

The exile settled upon the clouds of her haunches - a refusal to let herself slide into fatigue and the deceptive security of slumber. She could not feel safe here; nor did she know if the broken raven at her paws was pursued. 

A vigilante she would be on this dark night, silvers peering into the darkness from where she perched protectively over her ward's prone form. 

Every sound reverberated against her perked auds and only as the world began to lighten into the dreamy blue of dawn did they relax against her skull - stiff and sore, ringing from the strain of listening so very intently. 

The other boot would not drop, or so it seemed, on this day.