Water sprinkling on her face woke Breea. Before moving, she tested her breathing, and found that very shallow breaths allowed her to breathe without piercing agony. Wet and shivering, pain dulling her senses, but grateful for life, she levered herself up and looked about. Mist drifted through the forest, the trees dripped, and all was quiet except for this.
A dead grouse lay on the moss beside her, its damp feathers showing that it had lain there for some time. Breea wondered if she was having visions, then reached out and pulled it closer. It had died violently, for there was blood on its breast. Beside it lay a pile of mushrooms. They were white-caps, known for their healing properties. Ravenous, she stuffed the fungus in her mouth, scanning the dripping forest for the person who had helped her. Whoever it was, they had walked softly, for there was no obvious sign. Keeping an eye on her surroundings, she drew a dagger with one cold hand and sifted through the remains of her fire for coals, gathering them into a little pile, then laid tinder over them. Soon, thick smoke rose to merge with the mist.
She used all her wood to cook the grouse, letting the fire burn the feathers off. She ate the entire bird and fell asleep feeling far better.