Totoka River you need not be hanged like a dog

What was it, then? A carcass? Something that might serve as a makeshift meal after such a long and weary trek? Judging by the stench, it was hardly fit for eating. It reeked of death—foul and unnatural. Beaver had wrinkled both her brow and her muzzle in response to the rancid air.

She crept closer. Or at least, she tried to. Stealth was never truly her strength. A misstep here, a twig there—a leaf, a stone—anything that might give her away, she never failed to trample underfoot.
Annoyed with herself, ears pinned tight against her neck, she rose. There was no use pretending to be a huntress now.

A man.
In a pitiful state—barely clinging to life. She observed him, lingered in hesitation, tempted to walk on and leave him to his fate. But in the end, she stopped.
He looked ill, or at the very least, grievously wounded. His injuries, his pallor, the foul bile pooled at his side—it all spoke of a body on the verge of surrender.
A wretched, nauseating sight.

You're going to die, she said. Do you have any gods left to pray to? She remained at a cautious distance. If he carried some incurable plague, she wanted no part of it.
And yet, she was already breathing the same air.