Moonspear the return

Blood dripped down the patriarch's face as he made his way back to the mountain -- to his mountain. It seemed like such a petty fight, something that he shouldn't have gotten involved in, but when he saw the look of madness on her face he knew that there was no escape. Fighting had never been Charon's preferred option to resolve conflict -- unless he had the upper hand in numbers or other circumstance -- but here he was, once more dragged into a fight. His face was a mess but through the blood dripping down his brows he could trace his path using the left side of his senses, at least.

The journey was arduous but throughout it Charon felt very little. His anger had easily turned into survival instinct and he knew that he would survive; he just needed to rest up. The urge to crawl up in a shallow den and wait until he was better healed to return home was big, and he actually did spend various nights holed up -- but eventually he needed to return home, he knew that, especially before the snows began to fall. And before his family would start to worry.

As he reached the borders the blood had become a caked mess spread across the left side of his face. The wounds on his legs he had licked and cleaned himself, and the wounds on his shoulder and neck were partially cleaned, partially caked blood where he had been unable to reach. With a sigh he crossed the borders, just happy to be home. Without calling for any of his family he started making his way to the rendezvous site so that he may catch some rest, though he hoped that Lyra might follow the scent of blood and find him so she could clean his wounds.