Northstar Vale daimort

With the yearling's permission, Andraste knelt closer as he lifted his chin further:
welting red and terrible and red, the eagle's final stand had been immortalized upon the ashlar breastbone; marring its way from the base of throat and very near towards sternum's end.
It was hideous, to say the very least; but not any more than her own nicking that she'd recieved — not that she'd been able to get a proper look at either renting upon her spine.

All the same, the stricken's shorn brow furrowed at what she found, here:  "Yarrow, for ze bleeding, if there are any left to atone for ze mending,"  Dagwood's hiss scything through words intoned absently. Yarrow, yes ... and webs, for one could never be too careful. But what else? What else might he need?

"I would be surprised, if you have never hunted birds in ze past,"  the sybil settled upon for now, beckoning with a dusting of tail for him to follow on a meager forage; until she was certain she could away somewhere nearer, with more promise of tending to him.