Moonspear Is there a spirit that spits upon the exit of signs.

He woke with a grunt. Saliva pooled beneath his jowls. There was an ache in his ribs along the side that he lay, and he twisted so that he sagged on to his chest, briefly sphinx-posed. The sound of the rain exacerbated the chill of the air upon his face. He blinked slowly in to a squint, his eyes having been crusted shut for some time now.

When he moved to wipe his face off with his forearm, he felt how remarkably thin it was. Just out of reach of his paws was a pile of would-be debris: some dry herbs, a chunk of fish or something similar, a wide flat stone gathering rain drops just outside the edge of cover. If he didn't know better Revui would have thought it was the work of a medic, but who would bother helping him?

He could not remember the past few weeks; nor should he, really. The fever had infested his wounds and would have driven him mad if he had not been sedated. What he knew was scarce enough: his name, for one. Where he was, although that too perplexed him. It did not look nor smell of Ursus; he had somehow made it home.