Blacktail Deer Plateau You can't stomach that stuff, that's not in you

Patience, he said. Nieve managed a small smile in response, but had nothing to say about it. The wolf's way was to follow where the prey went, but Rusalka had never been made up of typical wolves who went where resources were abundant. They squatted in a small cove and eked a living from the sea—a hard living, admittedly, but one that would always provide if one worked at it enough.

They could get through this, too. They were resourceful wolves, the Rusalkans.

I'm sorry, Nieve said softly, looking away from Rosencrantz's burned visage almost a little self-consciously. It was difficult not to stare at the puckered, melted flesh that had once been whole, but Nieve knew it to be unkind to stare. She tried to look at any other part of his face instead, and settled on the black of his nose. That must've been very painful. Was it your home that caught on fire? That, she thought, might almost be worse than being burned yourself. She had no experience with fire, but the word itself evoked fear.