Naaghai Lowlands [m] triple dog dare

Limping, pacing, wandering; the search is futile and the night only grows longer. Wren shudders with the bite of wind. Why is she here? How long has she been—
A scent. One that now flooded her senses with a foray of emotion. Silvertongue, and it is recent. She has been here.
What frightens her is the irony tinge of blood.
Running now, running, or more like hobbling upon her own bum leg. Her lungs fill with that scent, that beautiful scent she had gone so long without, and she clutches it to her heart; damn the consequences, damn it all; she is here.
Until a trail of ugly, bubbling red-black appears in the withered grass. She follows, stiffly, fearfully, and it took her eyes a good few seconds to register what was in front of her.
She all but shrieks. Silver?