Blackfeather Woods never seem to find the time

There was the sickening sound of flesh tearing along with the metallic smell of blood filling the air. And lots of it. Redshank watched it splatter against the frosted ground, staining it red. He struggled forward a few more paces, dragging his heaving, shaking form across the ground with effort. He glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze connecting with the singular eye of an old friend once more for a brief moment. He tore away with effort, focusing back on the girl who's screams had become laced with a calmer ice. She entered his vision, a pale, blood-flecked wraith who he turned away from as she spat in his face. The fact that she was generously sparing his life was lost on him, as the boy's mind was only focused on getting away.

R-Redsang. He turned back to the other, a washed-out version of someone he used to know. But it couldn't be him. But how did he know his name? The familiar yet foreign, haggard creature lurched forward before falling into a slump, and Redshank scrambled back with a defensive snarl, overcome by panic. "Get away," he hissed, struggling to his feet. The girl had finally retreated after giving a command, though it was only a matter of time before others of the pack would be drawn to them.

The Cairn stared at the bleeding, one-eyed boy a long moment in confusion and anger. No, it wasn't him. It couldn't be. Despite the question asked in that haunting, raspy voice, Redshank silently turned away from the stranger and fled the woods as fast as he could, ignoring the limp, ignoring the wounds one his sides and face, ignoring the ghost of a past friend. Onward he ran, until he was clear from the oppressive woods. And then he kept running.