( going to be vague about his situation with herd and stuff. )

For nearly dying on a ledge, he was doing quite well these days, at least if he was allowed to have any opinion on the matter. By some twist of fate Onni had showed up at the crucial moment and nursed him back to health, and since then he'd recovered fully - after all, he'd had no broken wings, ripped-out feathers or other physical injuries. He'd just nearly boiled his blood and dried up. For a time afterwards he'd been plagued by random bouts of doubt: doubt that he had recovered, that he was still alive, that Onni was real, that it wasn't just a feverish dream, or even the afterlife... But his soul and heart, the things he had been taught to trust in and believe, told him that he was alive. So he'd accepted that fact, and the doubts were few and far between after these weeks.

The heat, however, hadn't relented, and few places offered respite. Flying gave some, but the moment you touched down, sweaty and warm from exercise, it grew unbearable. Only the slushy tundra of the north and this strange, deep forest held some vestige of coolness to them, and Moth had taken up refuge there. Flying in the Deep Forest was, to but it bluntly, a bitch. There wasn't enough space to unfurl the wings without smacking into trees, and without the possibility to flap, there was no way to stay airborne. For the first time in very, very long, Moth found himself spending most of his time on ground level, competing with deer and other things for food and water. Normally, flying in across them sent them scattering or at least moving aside. No one wanted to be squished by a Pegasus. But now, he was forced to get out of the forest's heart if he wanted up in the air, and out there it was hot, and if he wanted to return to the forest, he either had to make a graceless crash through the crowns, or alight on its outskirts and trudge back in.

He didn't grumble, though - no one had forced him to hide in here. He did it all by himself, and had only himself to blame for being trapped on the ground. At first he'd stubbornly remained in the same place, but Onni, who always was graceful on ground but had been so awkward in the air, she had challenged herself and learned to fly better: why should he be a stubborn fool, and not practice moving on the ground?

The result?

He was bruised, his knees scabbed, most of the time his feathers were ruffled from smashing his wings into the ground or trees when trying to catch his balance. Right now he was trotting through the trees, slowly, eyes always on the ground. He'd learned to master trotting up and down slopes without falling, but roots? Rocks? Sharp pebbles hurt to step on, roots tripped you up... A concentrated frown was evident on his face, and when a pained wolf howl cut through the forest, he nearly faceplanted in surprise. He tripped on a root he hadn't seen when his head snapped up, and went down on one knee before getting back up again. Wildly he looked around; it had been a call for help, agonized, from the dying unwilling to die just yet. Whinnying sharply in response, Moth wheeled around and moved through the forest in a most curious fashion: leaping down slopes with unfurled wings, hopping, trotting, stumbling and half-flying, all jumbled up together to form the Moth gait.

The scent of blood stuck to his brain like a burr, a shiver going down his spine. As a shaman, raised by other shamans, he had a natural aversion to blood: blood indicated pain, suffering, wounds, and it lay in his nature to wish to prevent those things from happening, or to heal it when it had... but the shamans he came from dealt with the spirit and its aches, not the body, although some had practiced the art of herbal healing. Moth had never gotten further than moss and spiderwebs. This smelled of wolf too, and finally he came down the side of a rise and the scene unfolded before him.

A female wolf lay on her side, bleeding, a bundle of a cub nestled between her trembling forelegs. A trail of blood led away, deeper into the forest, and the scene smelled of pain. He whinnied again, this time a deeper, gentler sound - soothing, or at least meant to be. He needed only take a look at the blood trail and the mother's state to fear the worst - that there was no salvation, not even if he had been in possession of Onni's skills. Some things just couldn't be undone.

He'd slowed to a walk, stepping with greatest care. "Hey there," he breathed, stopping mere inches from her. Muzzle lowered, sorrow in his eyes, and his warm breath rushed out across her neck. "I'm sorry." What else could he say, and do, but stay here and offer her comfort in her time of dying, keeping vigil until her soul slipped away? And what could he possibly do for her child..? He was no wolf mother, but the thought of them both dying in front of him broke his heart.

He wonders if this was how Onni felt when she found him lying upon that ledge.

Another came, silver-blue and dark, a black horn upon her brow. And with her, and her sorrow, came rain, gentle, splattering on thick leaves and gently dripping down upon them, like dark spots flecking their hides. She spoke of help, but Moth's eyes had already returned to the wolf mother's sorrowful face, to her eyes brimming with rainwater and salt. Another Pegasus came, this one brazenly suggesting what sounded to Moth like a mercy kill. Horrified, he stared at him for a moment, before shrugging it off. He didn't like the assuming way in which he offered help, to take away the pup before she'd even died, stealing it away right beneath her nose. No. Moth, as always, decided he did not like this stallion (and this usually extended to every stallion he met), but he wasn't about to kick up a fuss about it right now. After all, this wolf-mother did not need her last minutes filled with vitriol and anger. Wary, his eyes tracked the movements of an equine who with great care lay beside the wolf and her pup, who, finally, began her labored speaking. She offered the pup to the unicorn, shaking as she pulled it from her own grasp and pushed it towards the mare. Without thinking about it, Moth straightened up and put the flat bridge of his nose against its back; the mare had stopped a distance away, and carefully he nudged it even closer, hoping she would recognize it as hers now, and care for it - not reject it, and flee. His ears flickered as he listened to the mother. Find a pack. Join them, protect them, and love them.

It was fair guidance, and he tilted his head to look at her as she offered her spirit to the equine in her last breath. It rushed from her body in the form of a sigh; her chest did not rise again, but her blood kept running away with the rain. "Thank you. Rest in peace," Moth murmured, before seeing the pup all the way to the mare. He cast another sad look over his shoulder at the dead mother, then looked down at the bundle of new life, and up to the sorrowful, dark face. "Do you need any help to bring him to where you call home?" he asked softly, not wanting to simply abandon child and mare here in the rain. It would feel so.. selfish, somehow. He had come to help, and if she needed his, he would give it, gladly.