Bearclaw Valley some kind of nature, some kind of soul

It was the scent of fresh blood that drew him in, and he followed the tracks in the snow where someone appeared to have dragged something through the snow - deeper into Bearclaw territory. Spurred by hunger and curiosity, the she-wolf's howl served only to quicken his stride.

On his arrival, Venamis was disappointed to find that the raveness had not brought the body of a deer or goat to be feasted on, but that of their own species. He seemed to be in poor shape, and the sight of his festering, mangled limb (or what was left of it) was enough to curl his lip in disgust. 

He paused a short distance away, primarily because Merrick's dark companion still gave him the creeps, but mostly because he could smell something akin to death on the air. Venamis didn't particularly want to get too close should this half-dead guy prove infectious or something. Questioning pale gaze shifted from the wounded stranger to seek Astara's obsidian features, knowing there was no point in communicating with words.