Falls of the Hinterlands let's go up in flames, pretty lady

Llewellyn breathes a sigh of relief that she has been tended to. Thank God for small blessings. He shakes his head, not out of an unwillingness to help but of a knowledge that whatever he does might only undo the work of the previous healer. "No need, if the bleeding has stopped," he responds. "Please do let me know if the wounds reopen while you bathe."

He bends his head to take a lap of cool water, made even crisper by the presence of snow in the air. The flurries dust his pelt, silver against gold, and he shivers slightly. Winter is coming, and he is loath to welcome it.

"What happened?" he asked again, once his thirst was slaked. "Did you know this woman? Did she attack you unprovoked?" He would not insert himself into a personal quarrel, but then again, this was a wolf of a pack he'd vowed to destroy. Morals warred with necessity as he waited for her response with bated breath, gimlet stare boring into her.