Sleepy Fox Hollow Darjeeling road

Wylla likely never would have encountered Elfie if not for the sudden, strong scent of vomit on the wind. She was passing below the rocky cliffs of one of the surrounding mountains when it happened: the crisp alpine air was replaced with something completely unpleasant and she wrinkled her nose. It reminded her of when Tiercel was a child, and just like that, it called to some deeply buried maternal instinct and drew her toward where the boy was standing with his head against the wall.

Uhhh, she asked, neatly sidestepping the pile of vomit and casting it only a cursory glance. No blood, good enough. The juvenile's fur was a flaming orange brighter than anything she'd ever seen on a wolf, but she cut the imminent jokes off at the tip of her tongue. He was obviously sick, and while she didn't want to catch whatever terminal illness he had, he was also a kid. And Wylla was even nicer to kids than she was to dudes, which wasn't saying a lot.

You okay, kid? she asked, stepping close enough to maybe catch a whiff of him (but hopefully not close enough to get infected, good god, no thanks).