Cricket Creek Bog Now I'm a ghost, I call your name, you look right through me

To the question Isley gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "A few months. My strengths lie in quick wits and feet - this only proved I am no warrior." She explained. She had no intentions of sharing where her scars had come from or what had happened - nor her new name or it's malicious origins. It was fortuitous that the winter was so harsh as a fat hare in a clearing from the brush enticed the cat into consumption. The hemlock she'd laced in the rabbits flesh had done its job. Isley nodded again to the few leaves she had gathered, glad for the bogs abundance of water for the early return of plant life to it. 

"I am a medic by trade, not a warrior. Give me your wounded and I can serve, but a creature as small as I am is not the best candidate for guardianship." She concluded. It was nothing personal, and while she'd fight tooth and nail for those she cared for, she knew where her strengths were.