Sleeping Dragon witch hunter

He shifts the opinion back to her even if it doesn’t give her anything to work with. He’s a survivor, at least; he’s relatively in one piece, a little worse for wear, but enough to survive the beginning of the famine and—potentially—be able to keep himself up should he step onto her grounds. They couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, if they were having to pull all the work for one wolf that is barely their own.

“In this instance, you’re the only one that knows your worth,” she reminds him, a slight quirk of a brow. “You’ve seen the devastation around, you’re in one piece,” she points out, as if and yet, you’re here, before she rolls the rest of her words off her tongue. They had mouths to feed, but they weren’t full. They still needed, especially with the losses as of late. “There may not be many, if any, plant-life left, yet,” Thuringwethil adds, and glances around in demonstration as if it weren’t already obvious, “do you know anything about healing?”