Sleeping Dragon consulting the self

*whistles innocently*

Sleeping Dragon had been in his sights for most of the day, and the sun was setting before he reached it again. And even after a day of constant travel, he thought he might patrol the south and east of the mountain before retiring to the Hollows in the morning. Warbone moved inland following the scent of sickness, his copper fur reflecting dully with the last sunrays of the day. But it was dark by the time he haphazardly came across Thuringwethil and Sangilak, tending to the prone, storm-grey figure of the Dragon's Gamma. At first he couldn't tell if she was alive or not, but as he plodded nearer (chuffing to announce himself) he realized that shallow breaths were saving her.

Warbone sniffed at the she-wolf's hindquarters, near Sangilak's tending area, and then looked up at Thuringwethil, curling his lip. "Surviving or not, she is not fit for her rank," he said ominously, folding his ears back to compliment his cagey frown. She was certainly not in a position to defend the title, at any rate. He knew little of sickness himself, but if he were to grow ill, he certainly wouldn't expect to retain his rank. That being said, he back away tensely from the Gamma's poisoned body— he didn't want anything she had. And wasn't she the pack's healer? How ironic.