She had been drawn. Drawn by the cries of the wounded, the scent of blood and fear that penetrated and overwhelmed even her avian nares. Drawn by the hollowness of the Healers' eyes, the stiff, wooden movements which clearly shouted exhausted—though they would not, could not, rest while more and yet more wounded poured in. But what pulled her the most were those still laying on the battlefield, too wounded or too far to carry in. These ones, for whom survival was tenuous at best, were the ones whose call she heard the greatest.
Though she had left the battle no less exhausted, and certainly not without her share of wounds, on sore wings she kited over the middle of the now-still battlefield and braced herself. The losses had been great, and their 'victory', won by the slightest of margins, seemed even less certain here. There were battles still being fought here, she noted grimly.
Humans, gryphons, yaseri, chzarseri. She treated them all, though her familiarity with gryphons and chzars