Silvertip Mountain you're beside me, breathing so loud

Olive was somewhat disturbed when she found the trail of upturn snow and blood  — clearly something was amiss, and someone was in pain. There was a small part of her that had wished to move on and continue her survey of the mountain’s summit, but either this thing needed to be cared for or put out of its misery — and Olive hoped dearly that it was the former. So began Olive’s following of the trail, and she nimbly picked her way across the stony, steep slopes and leaving her own trail of pawprints in the fine layering of sugar dust. 

She was not the most skilled of healers, this she knew, but she had gleaned whatever she could from the sheepdog and employed these skills, in tandem with her knowledge of plants and nature’s healing forces, to heal Dakarai when he came upon her all those months ago, gaunt and sickly. He had left, of course, as Dakarai was wont to do — but he hadn’t died and Olive considered that to be her first real, medical success story… kind of.

The injured party had reached great heights, it seemed, and Olive soon found herself in the grips of some negative gut reaction to the whole situation. As an empath, she had always been incredibly sensitive to the energies around her and, at that moment, it was enough to roll her stomach. The fae’s twiggy jaws grit together and, again, she considered leaving — but that was not how Olive conducted herself in the face of life’s least beautiful things, not anymore. She continued on, ascending the mountain that had become something of a hideout for her as she spent the winter to regroup, post-moonspear. She had come to miss the alpine atmosphere of mountain life and felt it nurtured her. Maybe it too would nurture this aimless being, who seemed so in need of it. 

At the end of the trail and amongst the snow — a dark, huddled mass. The winds that whistled past the rise’s summit were by no means quiet and Olive had to move somewhat close in order for her delicate voice to be heard above them. “Hail,” she called out, hoping not to startle the small, sad creature — but also afraid she was too late to help. Taking a timid step closer, the sylph continued more softly. “It’s okay, you’re not alone.”