Bonesplinter Ravine his betrayal is overwhelming

the soft pitter-patter of rain as it falls is a pleasing sound to the tundrian. he does not fear the ravine. for what is left of it to fear? it was the catalyst for his fear as a young boy but it hadn't been it's cause. there is not much that wintersbane fears these days. he's faced his demons a long time ago. he is still naive, though. it betrays his age. he does not realize, yet, that fear doesn't have to be for himself alone. he doesn't realize that he can fear for others just as wholly. something catches his attention in the distance. a muddy but ebony mound. an unfortunate creature that had fallen into the ravine, wintersbane assumes. he makes to ignore it, to let the crows have it until he hears the noise it emits. his hearing is acute so he knows he does not mistake the small, raspy whimper despite how weak it sounds.

the mound — the mud conceals it's scent and from the distance between them wintersbane can't rightly make out what exactly it is — is still alive. to keep going would be cruel — the birds and insects would eat it alive and it would suffer until it drew it's last breath. while wintersbane has no qualms with killing — it comes with the territory of being a warrior afterall — he is a believer in swift death. to keep his prey or opponent from suffering unnecessarily. he is a warrior ...not a psychopath. he nears it with caution, thinking he will put it out of it's misery. as he nears he thinks it might be a mountain goat ( for all he can see is the general back of the muddy and drenched boy ) only to feel a soft hiss tear from betwixt his lips as he draws closer still to find that it's a boy. about three, maybe four, months of age.

the same age he was when he found himself in this very ravine. does that, then, make him the stranger? the boy was emancipated and wounded. he smelled like death but his flanks rose and fell with each breath he took; ragged and ununiform as they were. No doubt he was in pain. he is no medic. he knows basic; highly rudimentary medicinal practices to treat himself in case he ever needed to ( it seemed practical knowledge for a warrior, to him ) but the tundrian isn't sure it will be enough. the resemblance is almost uncanny and for every single one of wintersbane's faults he knows that he will be the one to break the chain. he has to try, at least.

he's no hero ...but maybe, just maybe he's the antihero that sometimes does the right thing for no other reason then it's right. covered in mud and silt from the ravine's floor it is hard for wintersbane to deduce the extent of damages done to the boy ...but his wounds, oozing with pus ( it's a rancid smell and wintersbane wrinkles his nose ) would be priority. besides getting him to a dryer location, food and fresh water. which, if the boy'd fallen, might prove to be difficult. hell, it might prove to be difficult anyway given the malnourishment he suffers.

shit.

first thing was first: see what kind of conscious state the cub was in, if he could rouse him at all. "hei siellä," the pathfinder murmurs gently in tundrian. he isn't sure why, other than hearing his mother speak it always soothed him. "you're ok." he coos, raspy voice a soft lull as he stretches his muzzle to gently nudge the boy's cheek to gauge if there's any sort of reaction.