Arrow Lake dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot

A scuffling sound shattered the quiet air behind him, followed by a gasp and a muffled thud. Intrigued, with only the slightest bit of alarm prickling the fur at his nape, Phocion wheeled to find a golden-cloaked boy on the ground, looking pained. He raised a brow, trotting gracefully over to where the stranger lay and looking down on him, kindness and good humor glimmering in his eyes.

"Well met," he remarked softly, then his gaze flashed to the boy's paw pad, marred by a not insignificant gash. "You're hurt," Phocion added, concern entering his tone. "Can I. . .?" Leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air, the white priest pressed his own pad against the wounded one, hoping to staunch the bleeding.

He said as much to the young man, his voice low and soothing. "I'm no medic, but I've learned a thing or two along the way," Phocion chuckled, ebony-lined lips lifting in a smile. "Moss works better, but this area is unfortunately short on trees." After a few long moments, he withdrew his paw and was satisfied to see that while the blood had not abated entirely, the flow had slowed.

"That will have to be dressed by a healer," he said, "which is convenient, because a healer is whom I seek." He dipped his muzzle to the boy in a gracious bow. "My name is Phocion."