Word Count: 891. Sorry this took so long. I wanted to actually read it and respond properly.
"From near to far, from here to there; funny things are everywhere."
If Grace Galaxy might have been born earlier - and additionally, born human - one might have called her a humanitarian. However, there wasn't a word for a philanthropic luperci, so far as she knew. Even if there had been, she wasn't likely to concern herself with it. She did not derive her regard for herself by boasting about her virtuous deeds. Acknowledgement was appreciated, but it not the overall intent of her actions. Rather, she was compelled to invest benevolence and kindness into the world. There was no pleasant experience that could come from behaving, as her mother might have called it, wickedly. She was not a wicked girl, nor was she a saint, although she had been a saviour on a few occasions. Her conscience demanded right living, as did her spiritual inclinations. Her home, wherever it was, was a sanctuary for those wounded or lost. On most occasions, they left after a time, with gratitude and amity. On all occasions, but for one.
On the forest floor, somewhere in New Hampshire, a wounded, young crow lay, crying out irresolutely. His fate seemed irrevocable. His wing was broken in at least two places. Lacerations littered his body, and blood exuded onto charcoal plumage. He was too weak to make much of a ruckus as a sand-hued canine with baubles about her leaned down to pick him up gingerly. He appeared to accept his destiny as her lunch, but to his phlegmatic astonishment, such a fate did not befall him. The wolf, bepedal and wearing clothing, pulled a leather pouch from the saddle bag carried by her equine. Sitting down, corvid cradled delicately in the crook of one arm, she opened the pouch and searched for something. The bird shivered, opening his beak to let out a pitiful attempt at sound. Something bitter was squeezed into his throat, and he swallowed languidly. Soon, he lay in her arms, limp as a rag-doll. He was fast asleep, and his pain was gone.
Grace glanced up once at the sable form on her head. "Taj, where are we going?" she inquired, for a third time. The twice before that, she had gotten only an urgent caw in reply. While the corvid could speak her language brokenly, she could not speak nor understand his yet. She had not been able to observe it quite as keenly as he had been privy to, of course, but the effect was really the same. She knew that his message was urgent, but she wasn't even sure where she was meant to go. Finally, he managed one word: "Water!" Grace stared at him, her face impassive. "You are... very thirsty?" she asked skeptically. Taj cawed insistently, impatience in his voice. "Taj, I don't understand! Show me!" she protested. He took flight, and she ran to follow him, wondering what could be so important. He had never done wrong by her before, and she didn't expect today would differ from that pattern.
By the time the corvid came to, his wing was splinted and bandaged, and his wounds had been cleaned. He tried to caw a protest, his wings fluttering piecemeal. His movements were shaky. The chestnut mare serving as his guardian nickered softly, catching the attention of her mistress. Again, the beige form shadowed him, and a soft voice reassured him. "Now, now! you'll hurt yourself, good sir. Please do settle down. Your wing is broken. You cannot fly." The crow could not understand her words, but her meaning was clear. A predator could not possibly put on such a show, and even if it could, this one was not. Perhaps he was already dead? He looked at her, perturbed, and cawed his displeasure. In return, she chuckled and offered her hand. "Can you hop up? Let me have a look." He understood the request and, after a momentary hesitation, climbed onto her hand. She lifted him until they were eye-to-eye, and looked him over. "You're healing well. You slept for a few days now. I wasn't sure you'd make it." He fluttered a bit, then hopped from her hand to her nose. Up her muzzle he went, until he was between her ears. Here, he settled and cawed again, this time sounding victorious.
They arrived at the river without event. Taj led her down along the bank. She could soon smell blood; an injured creature. She lauded her intuition, grateful that she could trust her friend's judgement. However, when they arrived, she stopped short. A ghostly canine was reaching into the water, lifting it out in cupped palms to give to the injured moose. Grace approached tentatively, Taj landing on her head. With her corvid crown settled, she sized up the bulky elk's injuries. She wrung her hands; her first aid kit was at home. Seemingly sensing this, Taj leaned over so that they were at eye level. Remembering his presence, she asked, "Taj, would you go home and get my first aid bag? You should be able to get in through a window." She usually left one cracked, so that he could come and go as he pleased. Then, she turned her attention to the femme who was hydrating the bull. The injuries were grave. "What happened? Do you know what did this?"