The injury to his lower back had begun to scab.
A heavy rain had fallen overnight which the wolf had tried to avoid, but he found that he could not clean his wound where it sat, and the rain did a swell job of it for him. Most of the blood had been soaked out of his coat. There was a tension to the area though; where teeth had caught and torn the skin, even with the scab (or perhaps because of it) there was a throbbing, and had he been able to see the wound he would have witnessed the red pucker of the flesh.
Now that the rain had eased off the wolf could continue his journey, and so he moved as quickly as he was able; his eyes tracing the clouds every so often as he caught glimpses, worried that there would be more rain. Out across the meadow there wasn't so much cover. He caught sight of a small family of deer grazing, and as he began his investigation of them, they took one look at the dark shape of the wolf and bolted out of range.
Just as well. He was in no state now to hunt anything so large.
Though pledged to the Yellowstone plains, Fjall’s mind was not so settled that it kept him there at all times. He still wavered on his decision, even if at the time he had felt so sure of it. Now, he suffered from a bit of buyer’s remorse. He was self-aware enough to know that he had joined for an entirely egomaniacal reason, and the guilt of it ate at him.
Who did he think he was? Was he the kind of wolf who pined after the wholly unavailable?
Fjall gave pause as he noticed a dark figure perpendicular to him. He could not tell through the after-rain mist that it was the stranger who’d fled from the plains the day of the skirmish, so he made a tentative approach. I greet you,
he called to the meadow wolf.
Fixated on his next meal and the dwindling prospects before him, the wolf was unaware of the other until they spoke, and at that point Drusk went rigid and switched his focus. He did not want to be the target of more teeth. He also knew he had to keep his injury protected or better yet, secret; so he turned sharply with his back hunched, his tail low enough to swat at the greenery of the meadow.
Like the stranger, Drusk had no memory of the specifics when it came to the attack; he had fled at the first chance and as a result, would not have known his rescuers. This was a wolf he did not know, calling to him in a language he did not understand.
All he could do was hunch and growl a quick warning—keep back, I don't know you. Try as he might to hide the slope of his lower back, the sudden shift of his body did make him wince and favor a protective stance.
Fjall stepped back at the posturing, his own body tensed in preparation to flee. He could put a brave face on in front of Yellowstone’s people, but he was no warrior – and he was not prepared to risk life and limb to greet a stranger.
It would have been easy to turn back, except his lavender eye caught the other wolf’s wince. Fjall ducked his head low and gave a supplicant wiggle of his tail. I mean you no harm,
he tried to assure the earthdark ranger. Are you okay?
He gestured towards the man’s hindquarters.
There was no avoiding the obvious: his injury was a beacon to others. If it wasn't the scent of festering flesh that drew them it would be the dried blood (if any remained), or the way the man now moved. He did not appreciate being a target and would have to be more aware of his surroundings to avoid possible encounters.
For now, he only stared. The stranger spoke and moved closer, motioning to the sloping angle of the wolf's hindquarters; this earns a flash of his front teeth as a warning, but also the flick of his tongue over his snaggled upper canines, a nervous habit. He would not allow the stranger to come closer—he knew better than that.
Neither could he turn to flee, as that would further expose the injury to the other wolf. It appeared as though Drusk was stalemated in to lingering.
Without putting so much as a toe forward, Fjall was shown teeth. Conflict avoidant, he took another step back, and then several more to widen the already generous distance. This was not conducive to a friendly conversation or otherwise, let alone a recruitment for that matter, and since the golem would not speak, he was left feeling more than a little helpless – not to mention afraid.
I will leave you,
Fjall announced, slower and louder, as if this might appease the injured traveler. But if you need help, howl for me there,
he gestured towards the plains with his foreleg. Fjall.
He gestured to himself. I am named Fjall.
Backing away, he turned to leave the testy creature to its own devices, glancing over his shoulder every dozen strides to make sure the wolf did not summon him back.
The other began to leave, telegraphing his movements but also speaking pointedly, and even without understanding the language Drusk could perceive the meaning. He appreciated how candidly the stranger acted; he watched as he turned to go, and only tensed when he did not leave promptly.
The stranger motioned to themselves and murmured a sound, which Drusk took to be an instruction; either the word for go or another meaning, but the stranger motioned towards the plains and Drusk bristled more fervently.
If he hoped to get help and chase him out, Drusk would be sure to be gone before that could happen.
He would watch Fjall go, and when alone again he would disperse himself.
But there was no call. No motion to stop him or otherwise. With one final puff of disappointment, Fjall turned back to Yellowstone and ran headlong, somehow forgetting why he had left in the first place. Suddenly, things seemed a lot safer back there than out here.