Northstar Vale ich bin nur in einer furcht

@Wintersbane

The stricken, rendered a hapless, misgiving boy, traversed the mountains with little ease, espically to his mind. It had been four risings and three sets of the sun since he had awoken in the thralls of the river. Blood had dried along wet, freezing cheeks, delicate like butterfly wings and dainty herbs. Easily crushed under the heel when no notice is paid. Ragged breating escapes faintly minced lips and glops of phelgm trial his throat. 

Where;
who;
​why?

Unkempt, his fur and health, and he showed it; thiner and thinner by the day survivng on nothing, nothing. It's not until he reaches the Vale he smells the fading presence of Courtfall wolves; unbeknowst to him. Wretched paws sketch the trees, misgiving eyes darting between tree and tree . . . He settles, unlike the grace of a seasoned swan, any onlooker would have confessed he'd collapsed, rather. He was expected to die here. 

The putrid smell of sickness and blood and cries bwtween desperate wheezes stalk the air and can be heard, softly, softly.