Dragoncrest Cliffs Broken body, fevered mind

The smell of rotting flesh on the breeze drew Sobo down from the cliffs. This was not the tantalizing smell of carrion, but of wolf flesh, and it had his brows and stomach alike twisted into knots. Once he had expressed to Chacal that he didn't think wolves washing up on Sapphique's shore excused them from trespassing. Now he was considering how he would have to handle this belief.

Between his lips, he carried several sprigs of dried carrionflower from the adjoining Tangle. It wasn't enough for proper treatment, but might serve to hold infection and bleeding at bay long enough to move them. He paused in the sand to sniff again, then picked up his pace. The wolf was close.

Sobo was stunned to find not some stranger lying on the beach, but the sandy-brown form of Gunnar. He hurried to the older man's side and slid to a halt in the sand. Can you hear me? he asked brusquely, letting the herbs drift to the ground for now. First he had to ascertain if Gunnar was still alive.