Larksong Grotto Warflower

At last, a hold, and a little exchange of strength between expectant mother and cub.
“That’s right, baby,” Ayovi stares in awe at the girl, enamored. She tickles, nearly hurts, but more than anything she feels right. The huntress sucks in a breath and looks back to Ksura with relief in her smile, but the quiet is not long-lived.
Like a tidal wave rolling through the grotto Saatsine and their injured appear, the woman Ayovi recognizes as Star Eater emerging from the coppice to collapse winded and maimed before them. Instantly she is at her side, encouraging Faliya to nurse her mother while inspecting the second cub’s twisted leg.
“It’s all right Star Eater— he’s alive. They both are,” Ayovi assures, tucking little Faliya with her paw. But the boy’s leg is horrifically mutilated.
“Skorpa—” She calls out for the norseman who knows enough of northern medicine to make a salve for the Ksura and Star Eater’s wounds. “Tag røllike og rens deres snit,” she pulls out strands of long ferns topped with fine clustered petals. Again she looks pleadingly to Ulfric and Aspa, that they may once again lend their aid to the wounded.
Then she turns back to the boy at Star Eater’s chest; examining the fracture on his leg. No mere accident has caused this. She grooms away the dried blood, using the yew to cleanse his flesh before coiling his limb in filaments of mayflower. “He should heal, but the bone must set in the correct position. This wrapping must be replaced every day.”

Ayovi felt sick.
This was the glory of war.
Many would not recover from it. Some returned from battle but were never the same. Still, others returned to hatred that history has yet to leave firmly in the past. They drew the blood—

but their children paid the price.