Bitterroot Valley who's never left home, who's never struck out?

No one had taught Angel Oak how to be afraid of wolves. Perhaps she ought to have learned all on her own, when she'd been just a young girl and another just like her had been stolen from her pack. But, though she retained an instinctive wariness and a healthy suspicion of strangers, it had never really been fear.

It wasn't now, either. Instead, Angel felt only relief as the pale, hulking figure came into view. The wind swirled and eddied, bringing his scent to her just faintly on the breeze. It was a scent she'd been catching the whole time she'd traveled along the outskirts of the valley, and the semi-familiarity of it further calmed her.

She hauled herself to stand on her own four paws as he approached, her tail whisking politely at her hocks.

"I am," she replied, bemused by the greeting, and by the slightly broken common that he spoke. Her tail wagged again in encouragement. "I was hoping there was someone in the area with healing experience," she told him, confident enough. She tried to speak slowly, in case he struggled with understanding the language. "Or just someone to lean on while I heal — I don't want to be alone like this."

She did not think to offer up anything in return. She felt it intrinsic in the request that she would do her best to be helpful and not too much of a burden, but being an altruistic individual herself, she saw no problem with asking for such altruism in turn, when she needed it.