Going Down, Down.

The raid was over—the Raiders had prevailed and though Satira had dominated both of her opponents and done her job as a field medic, the rest of the pack's performance hadn't been enough to prevent the invaders from making off with their resources. Inwardly seething, Tira began to make her way off of the battlefield to set up a triage for the more grievously injured of Valta, but was stopped when she saw her mother stumbling away from the fights and collapsing not far off. Concern flashed across the wolf-dog's expression and she was swift to abandon her tasks to go help her mother. The way she was moving, the slowness and unevenness of her gait, it was worrisome. Tira pulled up alongside Asla, her healer's mind racing as she sought any signs of injury on her mother, realizing just how gaunt she was where she had once been so strong. Now... Aslatiel just looked tired. So, so tired.

"Mom...?" Tira called up to her mother as she fell in step alongside Asla, ready to catch her if she needed. "Are you feeling okay? You look..." Satira didn't finish her sentence, just visibly grimacing as she noted the obvious ribcage and vertebrae pulling against Asla's thin skin. She looked like she was dying. But that was impossible. Her mother was the strongest wolf she knew. There was no way she could be this ill so young.

"Satira"