Ouroboros Spine nagligigaa

Great thorns? That was an apt description, so far as he could tell. The ridge where he'd been snared would be red with his blood by now; black, maybe, as it dried and took to the mud.

The more Kukutux tried to ease his hurt with her words, the more Kigipigak wanted to trust in her and believe her, yet he found it too hard. Any true warrior of Tartok would have known the beast was there; they would have abandoned the hunt before being targeted, he knew this. Running from danger was not weakness — falling prey to it, as he had, was weakness, and stupidity, and deserving to those who did not know better.

Kigipigak thought himself a man. He was better than that; he should not have tread upon those hills or let himself be lost to the heat. There was no use in lamenting his choices now. He could not help but mourn himself, to cry silently while Kukutux gathered her things.

He said nothing more — unable to draw enough breath to refuse what she claimed of him. He hurt too much, too deeply, and in places Kigipigak had never before thought possible. This was more than a wounding to his body but to his warrior spirit. He did not deserve his name.