Otter Creek among the chestnut trees of Mamre

"Then come," he bid the crumpled sylph. You stay, you die.

He turned, curving like a snake and moving slowly back in the direction of the creek. At the very least the she-wolf needed water— to both replenish and cleanse. But Warbone was not a saintly wolf. Lonely, perhaps, but he was not going out of his way to accommodate others. He was not going to drag her to salvation; lead her to it, maybe encourage her there in his starkly manish ways, but all of the male's energy was on reserve for moving forward and hunting. There was no room for extracurricular activities such as "life saving".