Blackfeather Woods watercolor melon

Ovaltine nodded, soaking up the information—at least, as much as she was willing to give. "You're a lucky little lady, then," he said. Not everybody had a healer for a mother, and Ovaltine had noticed that his kind were fewer and further between as time went on. The art of healing was a complicated one, and not something to be taken lightly. It required years of training, lots of trial and error, and—in some cases—a strong stomach. Oval had seen some nasty injuries and sicknesses in his days.

"I should be on my way," Ovaltine announced, preparing himself to leave. "Wouldn’t want to provoke the locals." He was more than used to being chased away from pack borders for not expressing interest in joining. The child had inquired nothing of it, and so he had not brought it up. Perhaps the pack was not even welcoming new blood into its ranks. With that, the man gave the one-eyed girl a final nod, made a u-turn, and went on his way.