Silvertip Mountain and there's a million things i haven't done

The weeping ceased, quite suddenly, and Phocion looked over, thinking that perhaps, answers could be found today after all. Not a moment later, after a strangled syllable escaped Cortland's maw. . .and suddenly the Mayfair was trembling violently, body convulsing, eyes round, bulging white orbs in his skull. His flailing paws pummeled into Phocion's side, and he leapt back, jaw agape.

It all happened so quickly--even if he could have summoned help, it wouldn't have arrived in the minute the horror lasted. But that minute, for Phocion, stretched into hours, and he was absolutely rooted in place. A statue, stunned into silence. He'd seen horrifying things--Zaria's body cannibalized by her own, desperate pack came to mind--but this topped the list by a mile. Shivers more refined than the ones racking Cortland's body raced through him, standing his fur on end; that was the only movement from the white wolf, who was completely and utterly at a loss.

They said that sometimes, even in the depths of night, the demons brought to life by Iliana's light still walked the earth. They'd seize hold of wounded victims, taking their souls, racking their bodies. Cortland, in Phocion's eyes, was possessed; he once thought that these stories were foolish, but those doubts were cast aside now.

It was only in the last seconds of the convulsions that Phocion began to speak, numbed lips chanting, in the tribal language, the one prayer he'd been taught to handle this scenario: "Fengari, protect him. Strike down the demon jaws of death. For he is your servant, a child of the night, and he is saved. Fengari, protect him. Strike down the demon jaws of death. For he is. . ."

The white priest trailed off as Cortland went limp, drooling, unconscious once more. He was bleeding, though, from a quick assessment, he saw it was from biting his tongue, which hung slightly from his mouth--not any internal injuries. Without hesitation, he sprang into action, rushing off the short distance to grab a clump of moss they'd gathered for the boy's other injuries and clamping it to the boy's mouth. He didn't know much about healing, but moss stopped bleeding--that, he did know.

"Oh, Cortland, please," Phocion mumbled through the moss. Tears came to his eyes, instantly spilling over his cheeks. "Please be okay. Please."