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While he no longer held the rank of a scout, Enkiel was busy with preparations that took him along the borders often. The greenhouse provided them with an adequate amount of plants to care for over the winter months, but some, like roots, needed harvested before the first frost struck. He went alone and carried only the small dagger used to harvest such things. No one had ever attacked him. Then again, Enkiel did not look for trouble like some. While small, he was strong—he did not think he would survive against a wolf, but he would be capable of holding his own long enough to flee.
His mind was far from such a place when he scented blood. A frown crossed the jackal’s face as he brushed dirt from his hands. With light steps he turned towards the source, wondering just who had managed to injure themselves this time. If it was anyone from the clan, they would have called for him. Yet what he found was clearly a coyote, wounded and bleeding at the borders. Without hesitation, the Resarcio quickened his walk and narrowed the distance between them.
He knelt to examine the wounds, speaking in a voice whose near baritone level was out-of-place from his small frame. Around him, his woolen poncho bellowed about, held in place only by the strap of the bag around his chest. “I am a medic. If you wish for aid, just remain still. You are losing a lot of blood,” he stated flatly, reaching into his bag for clean wool.
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