Honeyed Pasture loser

Skipping to keep this moving, as was requested by participants when I joined the thread.

Whatever shit-show Ketzia had stumbled upon, she held a certain array of amusement for it, though it was far outstayed by annoyance. The injured party swore—something she could relate with—before passing out, and the golden she-wolf who had been near him only moments before had seemingly fallen silent.

A dark girl was not—and with frayed nerves at the barrage of demands, Ketzia felt the flare of her hackles, her eyes set with the hint of disdain as she took a step toward the fallen wolf, ignoring the drill of questions. “How about we give him some space,” she hummed, her smoky voice lifting to an authoritative height she felt necessary to the situation. If the scenario continued to spiral, she would simply leave—but not without trying to give the poor man some breathing room, first.

Her gaze flicked to the pale wolf, her nose flaring with the knowledge of infection in the air. She was no healer—and her heart banged at the thought of Mahler, upon the lonely mountains he refused to abandon.