Ankyra Sound VIII. Standing in the back door crying, now you're going to need a friend.

She had abandoned the mountains for the sake of her stomach, drawn inevitably north until the grass gave way to sand, and the sand led down towards a grotto. All her days of empty wandering were curtailed by the many scents she found there; Stryx did not like gatherings, and she did not know if this was a pack's tribunal she had stumbled upon or not—but either way, she was present for it.

The great hubub was not what she expected to find here; as soon as the sounds of voices filtered to her ears, Stryx was eager to pivot on her heel and return to the safety of the mountain range. The pungent scent of afterbirth was everywhere — disgusting! — but she drifted along the outskirts of the gathered wolves like a ghost all the same, bright-eyed and discerning.

The largest of those gathered, a northerner by the look of his pale coat, urged for the abandonment of the injured wolf at the center of the discussion. Stryx caught a glance at her — dark, coppery, half-dead already. A youngster tended to her, and all Stryx could do from that point was scowl.

This was not her business. She was neither a scavenger nor a medic, but the sight of the woman left to the mercy of the universe was something that resounded deeply within her. Ignoring the fact she had been snacking on abortifacents mere days ago... She knew what not to use upon the mother, at the very least.

Against her better judgement the woman drifted to Surya's side, her expression grave but attentive. Stem the blood, she said. If it is internal there is no saving her, but if we are lucky— there is little luck in this world, she thinks, and the serious tone of Stryx's voice implies this belief as she sets to work trying to clean up the mess.