Phoenix Maplewood Who do you think you are

wintersbane is nearby in whitebark stream when he catches the howl. his ears lift upon his skull, alert and twitching with unfettered concern at the urgency in the man's tone. the underlying panic. clutch between his jaws was a soft fawn pelt, recently and finally dried. he'd been planning to offer it to nyyrikki for another metsästys but the hunt is forgotten about and the maned tundrian's path changes in a heartbeat, without a second thought. the god of the hunt could wait.

the smell of blood on the air is pungent as wintersbane draws nearer and when he sees the crumbled, bloodied mess that is keen an indecipherable noise that was meant to be a horrified croon of her name slips from him — mouth still full of fawn pelt. beneath the horror that someone would do this to her there is seething rage. the scent of blood has overpowered everything else and there is a desperate drive to know who did this to her, a cry for justice. someone has attacked one of the vartij's own, one of his own and they would have to face the warlord's unfettered fury. later.

derg hovers next to her, attempting to clean her wounds, attempting to keep her warm; her faithful guardian and a new appreciation for the man settles in wintersbane's chest — but it was not the time to inspect that. keen needed help and she needed it fast. he drops the pelt to the side and draws nearer. keen is the object of his focus, just as tywyll'd been so many moons ago. he was no professional healer but he'd done a decent job of patching up tywyll who hadn't looked just as bad, with infections to boot. the winter didn't provide much in the way of medicinal supplies. derg, give me a rundown of her wounds, he commands, as he begins to dig up the snow, looking for moss. moss lives in all environments, is sterile and chewed into a paste will clean her wounds. it should keep her chances of infection down and help to staunch the bleeding. we can tear up the fawn pelt and pack it over the moss to finish dressing them. sometimes, like in tywyll's case in the bonesplinter ravine where there is nothing but mud and bones, a rudimentary of the fundamentals of healing was the most helpful. he knew the most accessible things to use.

we have to try to wake her up. she needs to tell us if anything's broken, or if she feels feverish. not that, mind you, he's sure what to do for either case. broken bones might be a bit out of his league and though he knows different ways to cure a fever none of the herbal remedies are likely available — short of pressing themselves against her and hoping their combined body heat is enough to break it he's at a loss ...but they can't rely on the feeble hope that an experienced healer happens to be nearby. they have to assume that the two of them is all keen has; and wintersbane swears to mephala, to whatever deities of the tundrian parthenon are listening that he will not let her die.