Hoshor Plains Come on girl, don't leave me hanging

The scouting group had been gone for a while, and she had filled her days with productive activities to try and ignore how much she missed her mate and how much she worried about the group and their safety. Each day that came and went without their return tightened the knot of anxiety in her chest. But she continued to do what needed to be done, caring for her children, tending to her remaining herbs, and performing various other tasks required to keep the pack running smoothly. She was, of course, beyond excited to return home, but the feeling was tainted by her worry and longing to be with Emrik again. She missed his warmth and comforting presence; she knew she was safe when he was around, and she couldn't wait to feel that security once more.

She had spent most of the morning sifting through her herbs, cursing the quakes and the cold for her low supplies. She had been as sparing as possible, so she still had some things left to treat wounds thankfully. Remnants of dry plants were stuck in the fur of her chest and neck, but she paid little attention to it; she never minded anyway. The call from the borders made her whip her head up and in the direction of the sound. The plants that had been gently held between her jaws dropped to the ground near her paws. She had wished for that sound so often since Emrik had left that she was almost afraid it was in her head. But she shook the thought away, shaking off some of the plant pieces as well. Then she sprinted to the borders to meet him. 

She found him on his way to their den and sprinted even faster towards him, a grin spreading across her face. She wanted to throw herself into him, fill her nose with his scent and feel his warmth against her fur. But as she got closer, a certain tinge to his scent beat against her excitement and relief. She came to a skidding halt in front of him, her grin quickly turning into a worried frown when she realized why he smelled different. Infection. She knew the scent well. Her gaze locked on his wounded cheek. The gash was angry and festering. Immediately she looked him over for more wounds, her gaze freezing again on the scabs covering his leg; he wasn't putting a lot of weight on it either. You're hurt, she said, her eyes watering a little. She was always calm in these situations, but she was finding it hard to be the medic right now. She loved him and he was injured and hurting. Her heart stuttered in her chest and her blood surged through her veins. Somewhere deep down in her mind, she knew she was overreacting; she latched onto that thought and forced herself to calm down. She stiffened, her expression becoming unreadable. Your wound is infected, she finally said with the tone of a doctor assessing a patient. And your leg looks painful. She looked him over again. What happened? she demanded. She needed all the details to know how to move forward.