Luneshale Pass May the bridges I have burned light my way back home

He dropped the bird unceremoniously when the scent of a marked border reached him through the copper tang of blood. It thudded softly at his paws. Panacea went still, fever-bright eyes surveying the pass ahead. Someone lived there. Maybe someone he could bargain with.

His shoulder was a mess; lacerated two weeks ago during a hunt, now infected and aching with every step. It was a miracle he'd caught the bird at all. The scent of old blood and infection wreathed him, but he managed to stay steady on his paws. After a moment he found the presence of mind to howl.