Emberwood pestilence at its finest

The woman was unwell—not in the sense that she was gripped by perhaps the oncoming sick season that came with the cold, but something more sinister, it seemed. Of course, the bile that was wretched upon the ground, the slip of the rogue’s paws as she fell, it stirred Meadow to gentle action.

She dipped away momentarily from the other, moving through the brush of the forest and seeking momentary solitude. She could not risk bringing whatever infection ailed the other to her pack—if it were even that. Death could come in many forms—maybe all the stranger had done was eaten the wrong kind of food… or perhaps, even deeper within, her organs were beginning to shut down. Meadow would never know unless she investigated further—but then she would need to keep her distance from home for days, she believed.

And so when she came back to the fallen woman, she hedged closer, a broad leaf balanced precariously in her jaws, holding the most water she could carry without spilling. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it was better than nothing.

And so, the silver doe crept forward, moving close enough she could place the leaf down in reach of the stranger.