Bramblepoint Oozings and visible membranes are rude and thoughtless

Dragomir had three purposes for wandering out of Moonspear's territory that misty morning.

Number one: Isilmë was missing. He'd scoured the packland for her and found no recent signs of passing, and that put a sick sort of worry into his heart. Partly because Vercingetorix's murderer was still at large, and partly because he couldn't bear to lose the last family member he had. He struck out to search for her along one of her stale scent trails.

Number two: stores were getting low. Now that he could get around with relative ease, barring his limp, Dragomir felt the need to start contributing. He wasn't a good hunter yet—he'd lost a lot of time to practise while lying around with broken legs—but he would do whatever he could, and so his nose was also on the hunt for signs of fresh prey.

Number three: He needed to be certain his mother wasn't still lurking about. His sanity demanded it.

So out he went into Bramblepoint, whose trees had lost the majority of their leaves now and whose berry bushes reached up from the ground like taloned hands, grasping pieces of his thickening coat as he went. Sometimes the fur pulled out with a painful pinch and Dragomir would wince and whirl, clapping his teeth together against the thorny branches as if fighting off an enemy, but there was never another set of eyes looking back at him when he did.

NANOWRIMO: 240