But Why is the Pesto Gone?

Ásvor didn't give a damn if they were girlfriends or enemies or whatever they wanted to call each other, she just wanted to sort out what had happened. She'd gotten a good lesson in patience from raising Ulfr but she was far from the most patient wolf around, and she had to restrain herself from wringing Pestilence's ears as she stood up quickly. "Okay, sure thing, now sit your ass back down," she told her swiftly, standing a bit taller over her now. She wasn't crying and panicking like her last patient had been, so she wouldn't be quite so emotionally tender with her. Now that pestilence was home safe she didn't need to be jumping around and waving her limbs about, potentially making her injuries even worse. Surely they'd be planning more raids in the future and having one of their fighters in her prime injured wouldn't do them any good.

She'd been attacked, she said. Sparrow only confirmed it, their banter reminding her just how old she was compared to the both of them. Alright, enough of their foolishness. "Okay, entirely unhelpful there," she started, sounding more matter-of-fact than annoyed. Her gaze shifted back to Pestilence, hoping she'd listened and sat herself down again. "Now, since you're clearly conscious enough to tell me, what exactly hurts? Move yourself so I can get a better look at it and see how bad it is," Ásvor instructed her, with all the firmness of a mother trying to care for their child.