an old saint

Lúta glanced out across the horizon, wondering if Halo referred to battle or healing as the lovely purpose. Surely, she meant the later. The few memories she could recall were blood-stained. She knew her homeland had been at war, was probably still at war. Sparring for glory and respect simply wasn't a thing, there was only mud, and cold, and the buzzing of flies over the dead and wounded as they decayed on the battlefield.

A macaque wandered up, holding a swatch of willow. "Lúta, I found-" She paused and stared at the strange white wolf. Lúta roused from her thoughts with a sigh of relief and a gentle smile. "Ahhh, Raga. This is Halo, a healer. Halo, this is my good friend Raga. Yes, I was looking for a few different herbs. It looks like Raga found a patch of white willow. What are you looking for?"