Luneshale Pass your body laid out on these filthy floors

oh, god.

fiamma was shocked by the sight before her, which she believed to be a she-wolf—though the wretched creature was far from any semblance of glory. open, jagged wounds at so many critical points across the lithe, dark form. she was no healer, she does not know. . .

she looked at the man, regret coming in cold waves over her. she could barely feel her toes. it wasn't as if she was unaccustomed to carnage—witnessing the slaughter of one's entire family tended to harden you to those matters—but he was asking her to help.

and beyond trying to prevent the woman from bleeding herself into a dry husk on the sand, fiamma had no idea where to even begin to help.

non posso. . . she whispered, frozen in place.

but attempt, she must.

moss was used to stanch blood and plug wounds. that, at least, she knew. apparently, the desert grass was all that could suffice here, and so she knelt down and began to pluck and pack, pluck and pack, ignoring the sickening feeling of those wearied muscles twitching under her touch—

acqua, fiamma declared, glancing at the man, her muzzle, chest and forelegs smeared with blood. portami l'acqua. a precious resource, no doubt, but the woman was probably as dehydrated as she was delirious. they must have it.

water could rouse her from shock, perhaps. water could keep her going.