Tornach was nosing around in the estuary in the hopes of spring growth. The lands were flooded and muddy, but the plants that had always grown here had been water-loving anyway so should still be able to grow in the soggy conditions. He was reluctant to be here with so many sour memories associated with the land, but he had spent enough time here during the spring and summer that he could recognize many of the plants Zuriel had collected during their stay. A strange smell, a mixture of blood and sickness, caught his attention as he passed by a small hillock of grass as he waded through the muddy water.
At first he could see nothing, but the scent of blood drew him to the source. It looked like nothing more than simply a broken pile of feathers but as he drew close he could see the aftermath of a failed hunt - a falcon and a heron tangled together in death, the falcon's body pierced by the heron's beak and pinned beneath its larger body. There was a stink of rot and death, and Tor wrinkled his nose as he went to pass, but suddenly stopped as his path disturbed water and grass, and provoked a sudden faint flurry of movement from the falcon.
It was still alive? Curious as he ever was, Tornach moved closer despite the stench to examine it. The small creature turned its head enough to gape its beak threateningly at him - the rotted wounds in the back of the decomposing heron's head spoke eloquently as to what that beak was capable of. "It's all right," he said to the falcon, unsure if it could even understand the common wolf speech. "I want to help you."
Whether the falcon understood, or was simply too exhausted to fight, it didn't snap at him as he glanced it over. It just watched him with dark eyes. The heron's beak had pierced it through the muscle between chest and wing, and there were numerous other gashes across the falcon's chest where they had fought - all infected, for he judged that at least a day had passed with the falcon laying untreated in such close proximity to the decaying flesh of the other bird. Watching the falcon's beak closely he grasped the heron's beak near where it pierced the falcon - gagging at the stench - and pulled hard. The falcon's flesh had partly healed around the intrusion, so it only gave way grudgingly and drew a shriek of pain from the falcon, but it didn't move to bite him and he was able to remove the beak from the wound, and throw the rotting heron into the water.
Oh my.
The falcon was in rough shape. It's - her - skin was hot to the touch with fever, and each wound was oozing and sent red tendrils of infection out along the skin beneath the feathers. She panted with stress and trembled involuntarily with chills and weakness and her dark eyes were glassy, though she glared fiercely at him. Broken feathers littered the ground around her. Even if she were well she could not have flown away, with so many of her flight feathers broken or ruined in the fall. A wave of disappointment flooded him - he couldn't save the falcon, and it seemed like those eyes knew it. Well, he couldn't alone, but...
"I'm going to take you to find some help," he told her, hoping she understood. The falcon cocked her head as though listening, then clacked her beak... and spoke.
"Collect... my feathersss," was what she said, and Tor blinked, but before he could ask, she explained. "Ifff I ssssurvive, I can not fly. But perhapsss sssome feathersss may be... ssssalvaged, and reattached." It seemed a reasonable request, and he quickly gathered what broken flight feathers looked in decent enough shape, before gently picking the falcon up in his jaws and slogging off through the water looking for... someone.
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