Witch's Marsh broken arrows

The sharp scent of urine greeted his nostrils. He had not come so far since the attack, and he was intent to turn back on the trail he had laid to reach the borders, if not for the drift of wind that smelled so rich with blood. He halted, feeling the fur lift on his spine, and he clenched his jaw as he forced back to the torrent of memories that threatened to break through the dam he had so carefully laid in his mind. He had no business on the borders; it was not his place. He could not see. He could not defend. He could mark, but the borders were not in need of his contribution.

He turned his head over his shoulder, his body arcing to go back from where he came, to retreat to the relative safety of his home, but he paused mid-step. The smell of blood triggered two responses within his breast: fear, but also a sense of duty. What if it was a packmate, his family, that bled and needed his aid? He expelled all his breath in a huff mixed of frustration and uncertainty. He turned into the wind, and followed it along the edge of the grove, until he had gone so far west as he could without crossing the marks. He was close, the scent now recognizable as coyote, was just out there.

His steps were tentative. He was alert, flinching at every noise. He should not be here, but he was compelled. Soon, he reached her. His ears flicked forward. He knew by scent he was mere steps from the coyote, but he heard nothing. Blood was thick in the air. He chuffed, and there was no response. The boy growled. Once more, he tried to turn and head back, but as if controlled by a puppeteer, he next was at the coyote's side. His neck stretched out until his nose poked a limp form. He drew back quickly, fearful of retaliation, scrabbling back several feet. His muscles were tense, his fur bristled.

He waited.