Qeya River I know the pieces fit

He woke to find the den empty. Like a turbulent summer storm, the last of Anselm's hazy fever had cleared away, leaving his mind as pristine blue as a fresh cleared sky.

The man that had patched his head was gone. Anselm tracked him with a stiff gait that gradually eased into something better the more he moved. There was blood, and the clear sign of a scuffle -- he turned over these signs with a paw before he continued.

Tracks spilled out into a clearing where there were voices. Anselm slowed, unaware that much more than a scuffle occurred. He looked to the grim faces of the stranger, and the threatening aura of the man who he now owned a life debt.

He stepped forward with a sweep of his tail, gaze apprising and trying to read the room -- a room which held a mood to it so horribly and utterly wrong.