But Why is the Pesto Gone?

The call for a healer wasn't something Ásvor had the heart to ignore, even if there might be things she'd rather be doing. A stranger's call was one thing, but a packmate's as something else entirely. Sparrow's call was familiar to her, at least enough that she recognized it, and she rerouted her path toward the borders where the call had come from. Though she'd been tidying her herb stores in preparation for the upcoming winter, well... wasn't this exactly what these herbs were for? Bundling an assortment up quickly in a leather hide, she set off to find the meaning behind Sparrow's call.

When she arrived, she wasn't entirely sure what she was seeing. At least the scene was leagues different than the last patient she'd dealt with, much to her relief, and catching the tail end of Sparrow's words didn't offer her any insight. At least the mood didn't seem too somber. Ásvor definitely did not specialize in emotional trauma and she wasn't in the mood for consoling today. Making her way over to the two women, she dropped her herbs and moved closer, noticing quickly that Pestilence was the one who was worse for wear. And it smelled like alcohol. She clenched her jaw firmly, hoping this hadn't been some stupid liquor-fueled incident, but she was one to keep her thoughts to herself until she knew anything for certain. Her gaze swiftly moved over Pestilence as she rounded her, trying to take a tally of any potential injuries. Nothing life-threatening, at least on the surface, which was a bonus. "What happened to your girlfriend here?" Ásvor glanced up at Sparrow, unsure whether Pestilence was up for telling the story or not - she looked completely exhausted at first glance, if nothing else. And she was definitely making assumptions based on their body language, though she didn't really care if she was correct or not.