The air is leaden with the scent of decay. The fumes only grow stronger the further she treads upon slick and blackened vegetation, past half-eaten creatures consumed by rot that supersedes the actual time it takes for decomposition. This land was desecrated by some incomprehensible force beyond what Roxanne could imagine, and frankly, she is rightfully apprehensive about following the path of destruction further, out of fear of what she will inevitably have to face.
Before deigning to take another step, her hand instantly finds its way to her earpiece to call for backup. Amidst the static crackle of waves stretching across the land, Roxanne still keeps her ears trained through the deafening silence of the once-thriving woods. Part of her hopes that she will at least hear a breath being taken, but there is a chance that she might also find something lurking nearby.
While awaiting somebody to pick up, she catches wind of something panting, heaving breaths beneath strained ribs. A soft frown crosses her features when she pushes aside caution for a moment to follow the sound. Whatever is in the air is pulling the godling towards its source like some magnetic north, is certainly making the ichor in her veins sing and run hot.
The recognition of this reaction nearly prompts her to stop until she suddenly finds a growing patch of moss and clovers. Just at the toe of her boot, the thin carpet of green starts to stretch around her, trying to valiantly reclaim what was lost. The promising sight is enough to spur her forward again, albeit with light steps as to not undermine the work of whatever forest guardian / deity / spirit might be out there.
In the end, she doesn't take long to find the creature lying on its side, gasping for air. Surrounding it, a thickening blanket of blooming red and white clovers. The snow-white fur is enough to inform Roxanne of its celestial nature, along with its carmine-red markings adorning its body. But those details are rendered mundane in comparison to the molten hot ichor slipping out of the wolf's flesh from grievous wounds. This is enough to reignite the onslaught of gold threatening to overtake red ⏤ a recognition of divinity on this mortal plane. Regardless, there are urgent matters to attend to.
Roxanne keeps her movements slow and steady, inching a little closer to the wounded she-wolf.
❝Hey,❞ she murmured softly, approaching as she would with any other animal ( mortal or immortal ), ❝You're not gonna die here.❞
This she felt sure of.
@ama-tcra-su