Fox's Glade she's wearing rags and leathers from salvation army counters

their small procession was hardly out of Bearclaw before things went awry; rupert had made a mad dash from marten’s jaws, and merrick had attempted some sort of bloodless coup on his siblings and was setting up such a caterwauling ruckus it was a wonder they were making any headway at all. indra had forged ahead to ensure their way was clear; she expected little trouble, but trouble found her just the same.

ahead of her slumped a form, red as autumnal fire and yet, seemed somehow broken and subdued as raked coals. indra initially felt a ripple of protectiveness for her home overcome her — but wait, what home? the only thing that mattered now was her family, and despite the initial prickle of possessiveness she felt, indra realized this wolf was battered beyond reason, and visibly hurt.

she paused and lifted her muzzle to the sky, scenting the grey air carefully: there was a possibility whatever had inflicted such harm on fire was nearby, but indra could smell nothing on the wind.

and so, the russet redleaf wrestled with herself - her hardened mind said to walk on, to leave this wretch to whatever end fate designed of it. yet somewhere in the darkened corridors of her heart something shuffled to life; something long silenced and tenderly concealed. it moved from organ to organ, crawling and twisting as it fanned outward with a warmth that had not visited her body in months.

in the end, compassion won out against the colder nature of her heart, and the redleaf woman stepped towards fire and lowered her muzzle to look at the curled figure. are you okay? the question seemed stupid in light of the battery of wounds on the wolf’s fiery pelt; but indra didn’t know how else to get her attention without scaring her.