Bearclaw Valley bear with me

Such was Ico's awareness of his own negligible value, he knew in his heart of hearts that it would've been better for Ursus if he hadn't sounded the alarm, walked into the jaws of death, abandoned by a murderous Santiago, and then that would've been that. No injuries, no time and blood wasted, and no crippling of a pack on the brink of official formation. Just one dead newcomer and one trespasser who walked free.

But that was not how the story had unfolded, and it was no use looking back with regret. They were in a new present now, and the river from which Ico had drunk not half an hour ago was now stained with red.

Santiago fled, finally forced into humility, Astara seeing him on his way with a blood-curdling howl. The brave young man who was evidently a healer led the aftermath, and when his green eyes turned to Ico, Ico looked back hopefully — would he finally be allowed to make himself useful? Could he help?

"Don't distract me."

Ico's heart sank, but he obeyed the order in silence. All he could do was sit bowed upon the hillock, mind mapping a short, brutal story that would serve as an equivalent to a head skewered on a stick. Invaders beware.