Swiftcurrent Creek the wounds that cut the soul

The scent of blood was impossible to miss – the metallic tang hung bitterly in the air, and when he breathed Scimitar could almost taste it. Yet it was not born of prey or fun.. the lands seemed to fall quiet around him, and against his better judgment, the cinnamon male padded toward the shrubs of the creek, his eyes seeking out the leafy greens of mother earth.

He was no healer, and yet ripping the ferns and broader leaves from the brush, he took this ‘prize’ gently in his muzzle, his pace picking up as he loped toward the scene he almost wasn’t certain he wanted to see. The ebony male Jace was there – a quick sweep of Scimitar’s eyes would show he was badly wounded, though mid-talk with Bazi, the Beta.

Dropping the plants, the agouti male uttered a low ‘woof’ to announce his presence, his large figure lurching lower in respect as his teeth began to gnaw at the disgusting green leaves. His eyes lifted up from his task, uncertain if he was even welcome.. but one thing he had learned at a tender age – a poultice was the best method to stop bleeding, and it seemed his pack mate could use aide in the area.