Phoenix Maplewood Who do you think you are

Covered as it was in ice and snow, the Glacier held nothing more for her than the tattered ends of a future prematurely cut, yet she refused to leave. She couldn't bring herself to, not quite yet. Her tears had long frozen to the bitter winds from the North, but she knew her heart still grieved. Who could say which of her companions had died alone beneath the snow? As she bedded down for the night, alone herself in the tangled roots of a massive oak, she turned to stare up toward the mountain through the shelter of leaves, past the stretching moraine, until her troubled eyes reached the inky sky, and she imagined that night she had danced beneath the lights, with Siarut. The lights did not appear tonight, and neither did he.

Nanook closed her eyes and prepared again to weep, but she had very little time to entertain the grief which overcame her. A howl interrupted her brooding, a plea both desperate and near, and she found herself on her paws and moving out before she could think again. There was an urgency to the cry, a petition for help - and though she wished, above anything, to wallow in her misery, Nanurjuk had taught her better. She would have time to cry again, later. Here she slowed only a moment to bend her neck and draw her paw across the bridge of her nose before she charged onward, fully aware of what she might encounter at the call's uncertain end.

The scent of blood reached her first, and squinted through the shadows. In the moonlight she could catch the huddled mass of what looked to be - maybe one, two bodies? and the sound of voices met her - masculine, two of them, for sure. One crouched on the ground over the body of the fallen, while the other busied himself with a rummage through the snow. Nanook couldn't discern their words, only caught the inexperience in their motions, and the urgency in their words, but she could fill in the gaps:

an injury, fresh; and when she looked and sniffed, neither sign nor scent of herbs. Their voices, too concerned to be the perpetrator.

This was the aftermath of something, but no longer a danger, and with this understanding secured, she stepped forward into the dim light of the moon. "You'll need yarrow, if you aren't looking already," her soft voice rasped from both grief and lack of use, and she approached the crooked hunch of the strangers with a quick, yet careful step. She recognized none of them, but she didn't expect to; she sought information, but she could only glimpse a part of the wound which littered the girl upon the ground. She turned to the one who seemed to be looking for herbs, or anything to help. "The flowers bloom in winter. Their petals - crushed and spread over the wounds - they'll stop her bleeding and any infection."