Moonspear slippery slopes

His descent had already begun—the familiar brogue of Njord filtered down to him, but he dare not risk looking up as he maneuvered carefully. The slip of stones and grit was an unnerving noise as they shifted under his weight, some of them tumbling down before him.

But he found the shadow female, his nose grazing over her, assessing. Alive—the rise and fall of her chest—but a limb that looks amiss from what it should have.

“Hey,” he smoothed, though his tone was gruff with worry. He nosed to her cheek, wondering if she would wake—before his icy gaze traveled up the steep slope to the safety of flatter terrain. “Njord—I think I have to carry her up,” he called—not even sure if the man was still there or if he was still gone to find help.