Bitterroot Valley This used to be the future

She watched the stranger stumble for a moment, hesitant to draw near; Meteora was a bit of a nosophobe, a trait passed down to her by some distant relative. Illness and disease could mean death, and as a creature that did not know what it was to be hunted, sickness was her greatest fear. But when the injured female suddenly zagged in her direction before resuming a relatively normal pace and path, the silver woman had no choice but to speak— or so she told herself, because fear or not, Meteora felt a pang of concern for the other (particularly now that it had become obvious it was not a male).

"What happened to you, sister?" she queried, before wincing apologetically and switching to the common tongue to repeat it, her accent rhythmic. "You need water," Meteora scolded immediately after, almost motherly, though she eyed the wound on the she-wolf's head with suspicion. Not illness, then. She was no healer, but the exiled woman knew without some sort of attention, the wound could fester and kill.

"Fresh water first, then we take you to the Sea," she continued, her r's trilling. Like many Nereides, the woman believed in the healing properties of the ocean's salt water— though they did not attribute it to or know of the debridement properties, but rather to their Goddess' power and love for Her daughters.