Swiftcurrent Creek To Hold and Ocean

The cougar was gone. In his current state, Njal could not imagine what had happened to it - he knew very little about his current status, or how weary his mind was. All he could remember was a set of flashing fangs descending upon his face; the searing pain, his body dropping. A darkness which overwhelmed his senses - save for the thought of red for that was all he could see when his eyes opened. The scent of blood, the taste of it. It was everywhere. Even when his wife had briefly tended to the wound initially, Njal was not there. He grew distant from the blow to his head and, in his stupor, urged for the woman to tend to Fox. She was the leader, she was hurt far more than him.

And then, when left alone, he dragged himself in to seclusion.

When he next woke he was home. Inside the belly of the earth and surrounded by the stale scent of old blood. His head pounded. One eye was swollen shut, so that when a figure came to pass before the den mouth, he could only see a flash of it with the opposite. In his current half-asleep state, mentally drowning the pain of his wound, Njal did not know what was out there. He curled his body parts closer, collapsing his thick legs towards his even thicker torso, like some kind of broken child trying to avoid a boogeyman. Tuwawi's voice reached him through a fog, and so he did not respond - save for a low rumble of warning.

If the cat came back, he would be sure to rip it a new hole.