Lone Star Mountain my heart has sought a thing i cannot name

stigmata did not see the fall, but he came upon the scene some time after, drawn in by a trickling scent of wolf-blood. he stood over the barrel-chested victim of the mountains, and took his time learning each trenchant detail of his crumpled body. his eyes raked across disheveled white fur, strewn with snow and smears of red from hidden lacerations, and he noticed that there were other scars too, older ones; tattoos from another life.

through the tender snowfall he noticed the downed white knight's shallow breathing, and out of morbid curiosity, he pressed his nose repeatedly to the male's shoulder in an attempt to stir him.