Nova Peak dearly

soft paws tread the stone. light and careful, trailing the scent of honey-thistle and blood, thick and hot. elowen appears as if born from the dark itself, a bundle of herbs in teeth, kaldros left nestled in safe arms somewhere far from grief and fear. she does not speak. she does not need to.

"skorpa—? oh, ayovi!" she leaps to join them in swift motion, and takes one look at the pooled red beneath her, at the three squealing pups and the silent fourth, and acts.

"there is too much bleeding," she says under breath, already pressing herbs—cotton grass and caribou moss—where the blood flows like a broken river. her paws are steady—mostly. she has done this before—perhaps not the same scenarios, but similar injuries.

"you will be okay, just breathe," echoes of what ayovi had shared with her during her labors. she does not touch the white child, busy tending to ayovi. but her eyes flick there, soft and reverent, as if to say: i see her, too.

quickly, she turns to skorpa, seeking his answer.