Phoenix Maplewood Who do you think you are

@Wintersbane @Keen AW, especially to healers <3

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Shit.
This was bad. Bad bad bad.
He turned back to Keen after seeing Aries off, not knowing of his own injuries. Not caring. Keen was hurt.
She was hurting really bad. The blood soaking into her fur, through the snow. His eyes widened, shaking.
Fuck.
He quickly moved to her before lifting his head to call for help. Anyone. Anyone to help her...if she could be helped.
No, he wouldn't think like that.

Stop the bleeding, keep her warm.
Right. His breathing didn't slow as he cast about for what he needed. Goosegrass. Where the fuck was he going to get goosegrass here? He lowered himself down next to Keen, pressing himself to her, licking her wounds to try and stop it bleeding so much.
Oak leaves. He looked to the trees. Nothing.
Cobwebs. Winter.
He stood, starting to dig. Hunt around for an abandoned cache. Poppy seeds, keep her out of pain.
Infection, he didn't have the knowledge for that.

He returned to press himself against Keen again, licking her to keep her warm, slow the bleeding.
God, he hated the taste on his tongue but if it will help her in the long run..he'd do anything.
He could only hope for now, until another idea came to him.

 

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217 words​

wintersbane is nearby in whitebark stream when he catches the howl. his ears lift upon his skull, alert and twitching with unfettered concern at the urgency in the man's tone. the underlying panic. clutch between his jaws was a soft fawn pelt, recently and finally dried. he'd been planning to offer it to nyyrikki for another metsästys but the hunt is forgotten about and the maned tundrian's path changes in a heartbeat, without a second thought. the god of the hunt could wait.

the smell of blood on the air is pungent as wintersbane draws nearer and when he sees the crumbled, bloodied mess that is keen an indecipherable noise that was meant to be a horrified croon of her name slips from him — mouth still full of fawn pelt. beneath the horror that someone would do this to her there is seething rage. the scent of blood has overpowered everything else and there is a desperate drive to know who did this to her, a cry for justice. someone has attacked one of the vartij's own, one of his own and they would have to face the warlord's unfettered fury. later.

derg hovers next to her, attempting to clean her wounds, attempting to keep her warm; her faithful guardian and a new appreciation for the man settles in wintersbane's chest — but it was not the time to inspect that. keen needed help and she needed it fast. he drops the pelt to the side and draws nearer. keen is the object of his focus, just as tywyll'd been so many moons ago. he was no professional healer but he'd done a decent job of patching up tywyll who hadn't looked just as bad, with infections to boot. the winter didn't provide much in the way of medicinal supplies. derg, give me a rundown of her wounds, he commands, as he begins to dig up the snow, looking for moss. moss lives in all environments, is sterile and chewed into a paste will clean her wounds. it should keep her chances of infection down and help to staunch the bleeding. we can tear up the fawn pelt and pack it over the moss to finish dressing them. sometimes, like in tywyll's case in the bonesplinter ravine where there is nothing but mud and bones, a rudimentary of the fundamentals of healing was the most helpful. he knew the most accessible things to use.

we have to try to wake her up. she needs to tell us if anything's broken, or if she feels feverish. not that, mind you, he's sure what to do for either case. broken bones might be a bit out of his league and though he knows different ways to cure a fever none of the herbal remedies are likely available — short of pressing themselves against her and hoping their combined body heat is enough to break it he's at a loss ...but they can't rely on the feeble hope that an experienced healer happens to be nearby. they have to assume that the two of them is all keen has; and wintersbane swears to mephala, to whatever deities of the tundrian parthenon are listening that he will not let her die.

She'd half-expected to die when she collapsed in the snow — as much as she could have expected anything in those chaotic, fleeting moments of panicked consciousness. Her grasp is tenuous even now, flickering with each rousing sensation that bleeds through the haze. She stirs at the first touch, shifting and grimacing slightly as the contact registers, but it seems it's gone just as quickly, and she does not stir again until she registers the second touch. There is no thought in the space between, no room for rationality; she clings to consciousness only because her body's devastation keeps her tethered, reactive to each twinge of pain, and it is so all-consuming that for a time she processes nothing else.
A whine slips from her, low and faint, at the return of sensation: warmth at her side, the fiery feeling of a tongue against her wounds. She shifts again, closer to the warmth, and for a few moments she imagines that it is Merrit — that she'd never left her brother, that she'd insisted he come with her and now he has come to save her. But then a slightly-distant voice cuts through the daydream and she stirs again, tucking closer to the warmth despite the way her body protests the movement and taking in the scent of her savior. Her teenager's heart, blissfully unchanged even by the trauma of being gnawed nearly to death by a stranger, skips a little to realize that it is Derg beside her, though she cannot linger on the thought long. It is only a small respite; a brief distraction lasting no longer than a breath before she slips back into half-conscious oblivion, forgetting entirely the voice that had roused her and everything else with it.

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Wintersbane came swiftly, the man's heart lept in small relief as he realised his trust was truly placed well. He doubted another soul would come to aid like the Tundrian did. Deep breaths, keep the panic at bay. He could keep this under control.
Keep her alive.

"Deep neck wound on the left side, deeper than a lot of war wounds I've seen."  Shit. This was bad. But in all fairness, war wounds came as a result of fighting back, he doubted Keen could even stand a chance even if he'd taught her.
"Her scruff is shredded, deep too but the neck doesn't stop bleeding." He felt Keen shifting, softly pressing his nose to the top of her head.

"Althea, slànachadh i. Dùsgadh aon làidir "
Althea, heal her. Wake up strong one.
The words were so quiet he doubted even Wintersbane could hear. But he hoped the Goddess was listening to him and would grant his bidding. Even though his faith in deities was thin, he'd try anything.

"Keen," he spoke louder, trying to rouse her, "wake up. Talk to me."
His gaze tilted to Wintersbane, hoping the man could find the moss he was looking for. Derg was as about as useless as a rock when it came to healing. A warm rock, that is.
He nudged the girl again, feeling her press into him, "come on, open your eyes. You're safe." He swallowed, fighting the thick lump that had build in his throat.
He took another steadying breath.
He promised then, silently, he'd hunt down that silvered male and he'd kill him. Kill him for hurting the innocent girl, but only when she was better and the pack had numbers. He'd likely not return himself once he embarked on his hunt. 

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​305 words

 

Covered as it was in ice and snow, the Glacier held nothing more for her than the tattered ends of a future prematurely cut, yet she refused to leave. She couldn't bring herself to, not quite yet. Her tears had long frozen to the bitter winds from the North, but she knew her heart still grieved. Who could say which of her companions had died alone beneath the snow? As she bedded down for the night, alone herself in the tangled roots of a massive oak, she turned to stare up toward the mountain through the shelter of leaves, past the stretching moraine, until her troubled eyes reached the inky sky, and she imagined that night she had danced beneath the lights, with Siarut. The lights did not appear tonight, and neither did he.

Nanook closed her eyes and prepared again to weep, but she had very little time to entertain the grief which overcame her. A howl interrupted her brooding, a plea both desperate and near, and she found herself on her paws and moving out before she could think again. There was an urgency to the cry, a petition for help - and though she wished, above anything, to wallow in her misery, Nanurjuk had taught her better. She would have time to cry again, later. Here she slowed only a moment to bend her neck and draw her paw across the bridge of her nose before she charged onward, fully aware of what she might encounter at the call's uncertain end.

The scent of blood reached her first, and squinted through the shadows. In the moonlight she could catch the huddled mass of what looked to be - maybe one, two bodies? and the sound of voices met her - masculine, two of them, for sure. One crouched on the ground over the body of the fallen, while the other busied himself with a rummage through the snow. Nanook couldn't discern their words, only caught the inexperience in their motions, and the urgency in their words, but she could fill in the gaps:

an injury, fresh; and when she looked and sniffed, neither sign nor scent of herbs. Their voices, too concerned to be the perpetrator.

This was the aftermath of something, but no longer a danger, and with this understanding secured, she stepped forward into the dim light of the moon. "You'll need yarrow, if you aren't looking already," her soft voice rasped from both grief and lack of use, and she approached the crooked hunch of the strangers with a quick, yet careful step. She recognized none of them, but she didn't expect to; she sought information, but she could only glimpse a part of the wound which littered the girl upon the ground. She turned to the one who seemed to be looking for herbs, or anything to help. "The flowers bloom in winter. Their petals - crushed and spread over the wounds - they'll stop her bleeding and any infection."

Wintersbane draws in an uneven breath as he continues on his search, listening to derg's rundown of her injuries. it sounds bad. it sounds as badly as it looked and currently that was pretty damn bad. wintersbane upheaves snow as rapidly as he could, shifting his body so that he faces keen and derg so that they do not get sprayed by flying snow. he knows there has to be moss nearby somewhere —

someone approaches and wintersbane, in the aftermath, in the warlord's fury that seethes in his bones towards whomever had done this to keen, lets out a low warning growl with a bristle of his hackles. he is keen's sotaherra and he will kill for her without a moment's hesitation, without question. to protect her. as he would any other of the vartija wolves; but the woman — not keen's attacker, the scent of her attacker, lingering as it was, is masculine and despite that it's eerily familiar to wintersbane he cannot place how yet — speaks of yarrow and though the tension does not leave the tundrian's shoulders the hostility leaves his glacial gaze as it settles upon the woman — her silvery pelage is windswept, her body lean and streamlined. she is here to help, he tells himself.

moss. i was looking for moss. and while wintersbane is sure he's heard of yarrow before he isn't so sure he knows what it looks like. easily, he could go in search of whatever flower blooms he sees — it's unlikely he'll find many others — but there was too great a risk that he'd pluck something poisonous. i don't know what they look like. he admits to the stranger, claws unearthing a fresh mound of moss, the warm, earthen scent dug up with the last bit of snow. my healing skills are very rudimentary i'm afraid.

he is loathe to leave derg and keen alone with the stranger, despite that she is obviously here to help. i've found moss but if you suggest yarrow over it, help me search for it? the tundrian suggests to the woman, glimpsing between her to derg and keen and back again. two wolves searching for it was better than one, especially if this specific area of the maplewood couldn't provide it.

Another whine slips past her lips as she stirs to the sound of her name, eyes fluttering open a few moments later and fixing on Derg. Talk to me, he says, and her throat flexes in automatic response, sending another bolt of stinging agony through her. She swallows her cry of pain, trying to focus on Derg's words, but they only barely register. Predictably, the stranger's arrival slips past her; for all she knows, Derg could be the only wolf around for miles.
Derg, Her voice is halting, raspy from the damage to her throat, and each word feels like swallowing a hot knife. I-it hurts — She nearly chokes on the last word, faltering in her explanation as a cough tears itself from her tender throat. The harsh sound ends in a ragged, involuntary sob, and she squeezes her eyes shut against the tears and falls silent again, exhausted and overwhelmed by the pain.

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His ears perked at the stranger, knowing it wasn't the assailant. Even so, he mildly flashed his teeth to show he wouldn't tolerate another attacker. He relaxed again when she started helping Wintersbane, still keeping an ear on the two.
He wanted to help them search but keeping Keen warm was also important.
Ach, what the hell.

He rose slowly and moved to pull the pelt over Keen, licking at the neck wound again. It was slowing: he couldn't decide if it was from blood loss or if it was clotting.
He nuzzled her, trying to comfort her, his very heart breaking and thumping against his chest. 
He couldn't save her.
He let her wander off.
It was his fault.

"I'm sorry Keen. Stay awake. We will make you better."  He sighed softly, letting go of the pain aching rip he'd felt in his chest and dislodging the lump in his throat. She wasn't dead. She could live. 
She had to because if she didn't he'd never forgive himself.
"Where do we look?" he asked, turning to face the apparent healer woman. Ready to do anything for Keen.
Loyalty had often become his downfall but he'd be damned if he ever stopped trying.

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213 words​

Nanook holds herself with the practised air of confidence - careful, but unshaken, by the sharp sting of tension which reels from the broken girl's companions. There was a time she would have fled from such energy; she'd run even as her own mother lay dying, after all, and truthfully, Nanook still fears that one of these times, she will break, and she will turn and start running again.

But tonight, her fears are unfounded. She remembers Scarlett - and she is still strong. 

"What you know will be an asset," she says to the tundrian, but before she can address his further concerns, a noise rises from where the earthen one lays, short and faint in the still night air, yet enough of a voice to steal Nanook's attention toward her. There is something familiar in the stirring, and for a moment, she is rendered silent. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. "I will help."

Somehow, she manages to pry her eyes away, and her heart is filled with emotion: deep anger, for whomever did this to the girl, and great compassion. "I will help," she repeats, firmer now, set in her resolve. "You," she jerks a nod toward the paler guardian, whose voice had just lifted, pressing to help. "Dig up the snow, look for moss, keep watch. If her assailant returns, or any predator - or if she grows worse, call us back. We will be near. We'll need what you find to dress her once we've cleansed the wound of any dirt or infection."

Nanook understands his want to help, his desire to come with her, but he will serve his companion much better here. She doesn't know these wolves beyond the small moment she's shared with them now, but she senses between the pale guardian and the fallen girl a connection; a love, and a mutual care - and this makes her all the more certain that he is the one who needs to stay.

Resolved in her command, Nanook returns her focus to the tundrian, "Yarrow. We're looking for a plant with fern-like leaves, very delicate. White flowers that group in large, dense clusters. And their scent is strong, very aromatic. Hard to miss, even if you're not looking. Come," and she takes a step back, though her attention still lingers on the tundrian, "They grow in open soil, thin, sandy. Fields, waste lands. I know where to look."

And she retreats into the shadows - West, in the direction she came. She knows these lands; after all, they had once been home to her, three times over. The plains around Silver Moraine are be the first place they'll look, and she slips easily into the trek towards them. She is certain the tundrian healer will follow - she doesn't feel the need to look over her shoulder to check if he will - but she looks anyway - hoping she will only see the tundrian, praying the pale guardian will see his need to stay.

IIII have no idea what I'm dooooiing~ :D

since keen's inactive at the time i'm editing this & there's been no replies for over a month now, i took the liberty of editing in a small, vague conclusion and archiving this.

the woman affirms that she will help and relief washes over wintersbane, visible for a few moments in the planes of his face. keen's injuries are bad, worse than tywyll's had been, he thinks. he'd done an ok job patching the redhawk boy up but his first advice to him had been to seek a professional healer. wintersbane knew enough to patch up, to stave off infection and prevent blood loss until a proper medic could be found to treat the wounds — staple knowledge that any warrior should have in his personal opinion.

derg offers to help and the stranger takes the lead in their situation — and the sotaherra defers to her. wintersbane's not in the habit of being told what to do these days but she's the healer and if it saves keen's life then that's all that matters. wintersbane shoots derg a do as she says look with a nod to take the healer's words as if they came from his own mouth; though he doubts the earthen colored male needed much convincing to do as he was told even if the order came from a loner. not with keen's life in peril.

wintersbane follows after the healer, repeating what she'd told him about yarrow in his head as they walk. fern-like plant. delicate. white flowers. aromatic scent. thank you, wintersbane offers when she looks back to ensure that he is, indeed, following her. the vartija is in your debt. the vartija could use a healer like her but given the circumstance and the fact that it felt ill-mannered to attempt to recruit when keen's life was on the line he doesn't make the attempt. keen and getting her to a more stable condition was his first priority.

they find the flowers they're looking for and make their way back to the injured girl post haste and began treating her wounds. when they are finished wintersbane isn't very confident she'll survive but only time would ultimately tell. for now, he thanks the woman once more and suggests that he and derg stay with keen until she is well enough to move. only then did they make their slow attempt back to permafrost hollows.