Lion Head Mesa pestilence

She moaned a little, shuffling her paws. Pla. . . Her voice trailed off. More and more, she slumped against Tavina. The walk to the den seemed endless.

When they arrived, she folded in upon herself like a cheap suitcase.

Bruised and bloodied, broken, battered, beaten down. 

How many times had she been this way? And yet, she'd bounced back each instance.

Maegi didn't know—or care—if she'd be able to do that again.

Thanks, she slurred, with the last shreds of grace and dignity she possessed, eyes upturned toward the healer. Her savior. . .on more than one occasion, now. And when she slept soon after, mercy touched her soul and gave her dreams of that sweet face.

Nothing more. For now.