Redhawk Caldera Misplaced hours

Quixote recognized him from the meeting regarding the war, but they hadn't exactly spoken.  Though he wagged his tail at first, it quickly halted when he realized that with him came the metallic scent of blood.  Though rather useless for finding the source of a wound, his ears flicked forward more alertly, acidic eyes not having to search far to spot the bloody shoulder.

Needless to say, Quixote was concerned. Could that wound be from the war?  Did he have someone pecking it open every night when he slept?  Had he been slashed open by an angry deer or something?  Honestly, just because of how long it had been, the war seemed the least likely cause.  He was a little too perplexed by that to offer a completely coherent sentence, so a slightly jumbled one that skipped from the mentioned subject to the obvious one would have to do. Uh, yeah-- no problem. Shouldn't you be keeping off that?  Quixote was not a medic.  He had enough field training to probably keep someone from completely keeling over dead before someone more experience showed up, but that was about it.  This guy seemed to be relatively unperturbed by it though, so he wasn't quite sure what to think.