It had been long since she had breathed the cold, clean air of home. Up there, among the plateus and peaks she was never bothered by smoke and mud and the hackle and cackle of the mad piles of fire hazards and desease that the humans built for holds and settled places. Between the blades, the spoil, the blights and the pests it was no wonder they could pass from scratches and nicks, fever, poxes and plagues carried them off, and still they heaped themselves together, so frightened of the wilds beyond their walls. Safe to succumb within their fetted defenses.
This was why she had come. Had been sent. To help them, and to help them help themselves. "Teach them", had Birker said. Oh if that goat of a vidvandrir had any notion of what he had asked of her. How does one teach a frightened child?
Patience, everlasting and unsullied by that idiot child's endless ability to light everything on fire, even down to his own hair, and the sight of blood so undid him that he needed as much mending as the man with his chest half opened.
Patience. Patience everlasting.