Firefly Glen because you feel like a heartbeat

The waif felt a pang of guilt pierce her heart as the guyya stuttered out an agreement - thinking perhaps she had been too forceful in her proffering of aide. 

"I vould be 'onored," the Saluki reassured gently as she took an equally measured step towards his prone form. "It is my pur-pose, to 'elp people." The words were vaguely hushed, on accounts of their close proximity, completely sincere. It was of the druid's belief that the stars had woven her to heal, to mend the broken. 

"Ach," the ruin of a mother tutted softly as she took a good glimpse at the honey-smeared gash - not unlike her own rosy tattoo of violence. "Zat is nae good, 'oney vill only clot vith dirt - draw bugs," her raspberry nose crinkled slightly as she softly instructed. 

"Zis may 'urt," Fen apologized, grimacing, as she leaned forward cautiously. The healer lapped at the wound gingerly, not wanting to harm Memory, as she cleaned the crust of blood, honey, and grit from the wound. 

It was not a savoury flavor - that of a wound - but neither was it unpleasant; the herbs she typically used had a worse palatable quality by far. It was the taste of war itself: the copper of crimson, gunmetal, ash. 

She cleaned the warrior's wound, going so far as to bathe his ear with the same bashful tediousness. It felt the flames would never stop licking her cheeks, warmth spreading over her features and down her snowy neck to sear its way into her heart - plucking discordant notes on its strings. 

"Nort'," she answered uncertainly, unsure of how to relay her unusual upbringing, voice wisping as the word brushed his skin. "Grinestone Ravine vas za first pack I serve'," the former slave added for some sort of explanation, nodding once - somberly - as she stepped back from him.