Cricket Creek Bog west coast blues

The scent of wolves drew the forest sylph from her thoughts, and eyes of violet blinked to search the horizon - the smells, they whispered to her, the voices of the gods; so she followed, plush tail tucked low with her snout to the ground (various herbs scrounged from the snow that she had intended to give to Grayson lay tucked in her jaws). Soon enough she came upon them, one as orange as flames that flickered and burned -- the other a stormy grey, like smoke to match the fire, but ah! He was wounded. Perhaps it had been fate that led her to him, perhaps it was only chance.

She left distance between them at first, bowing her head and slinking lower to the ground; if they were to tun their attention to her, her rosy cheeks would flush and heat up, unsure how to meet their eyes. It was in a moment of following silence that at last she spoke up, gaze dancing between the two figures before settling on the male. "Forgive me for intruding sir, and... ma'am... I am a healer. You are wounded. May I?"