Dawnlark Plains Stop, what the hell are you talking about?

The hunt and its resulting chase had gone well, the grouse he had caught laying near him, mangled and half eaten. The remains were enough to keep as a snack for later in the day, and so he left it as he lay there, cleaning his paws and muzzle with long, sure licks of his tongue. A douse in the river they settled near would be enough to lift the pink from his fur, so there was little care for any spots he missed.

It was only when movement distracted him that the wolf looked up, watching as a familiar figure eased across the plains, his attention seemingly so intent upon something else that he did not notice the wolf of the North as he lay there. Curious, Stjornuati would rise to his feet and seize the remains of his kill before venturing closer, drawing even with Kigipigak only to find that the source of the other's attention was but a woman, crumpled upon the ground.

He could not help the annoyance that flickered through him; of course he found Kigipigak with another woman, the wound of betrayal still too new for Stjornuati to not be embittered towards the other. Logic would prevail, however, as he himself had watched Kigipigak approach the woman with his own eyes. His newly found skepticism of the Tartok wolf did not run into paranoia, and such thoughts and emotions would not consume the man. He would not allow it.

Instead, he looked to the darkened figure upon the plains, attempting to assess what injuries caused her to wail so. Grouse falling to the ground, he would crack bloodied jaws to simply ask rather than guess. Are you wounded? Little did he know that the wounds the woman before them carried ran far deeper than any herbs could heal.