Frostfire Ridge she wears the smell of blood and death like perfume

"Looks like you took several." A quizzical eyebrow raise punctuated her words as her eyes spied the scrambled pawprints trailing after the stranded wolf. Upon the woman's bid for help, Lusca paced the niveous perimeter of the declivity, scouring for a secure path up, but found nothing but iced-in crags. 

Pausing, she buried herself deep in thought, exploring their options until the lightbulb plinked on and she scampered into the nearby woods, hollering over her shoulder mid-bound. "I have a solution. Don't move!" 

After several minutes, Lusca returned, hauling a conifer branch behind her with a determined look decking her brow. The tree limb, despite being encased in frost, was pliable, and unlikely to break under the strain of wrenching -- turning Lusca into a decent makeshift belay. "I hope you're not fat." She hummed under her breath. 

Swinging one end of the branch over the ledge, she peered irresolutely after it, the glove of her muzzle clutching tightly around the lodged offshoot as she tried to speak around its interference. "Okay. Extraction attempt numero uno–hold onto this, if you slip, I've got you." Prrrrobably...