He'd left that night, after doing what little he could to help... clean up, he supposed, even if the words felt foul even in his own mind. It weighed upon him like a cougar upon his back, that their neighbor's child had come to the Cove in good faith and died - drowned, in the very waters that had brought so many of them life the past summer. Sephrina had died, and Isla was nowhere to be found. Nash couldn't justify waiting to find the girl before bringing this news to her father. He deserved to know, and he deserved to know now.
As leader of the pack, Nash would deliver this news himself. He was responsible for their guests, and he had failed so tremendously he wouldn't blame Viorel for ripping him to shreds here and now. He couldn't even fathom what he would do if one of his children had died during the exchange. He would rip apart the whole world, if only he might have a chance at saving them.
So he'd slipped away by himself and made the journey down the mountainside, hardly stopping to rest until he reached the Backwater's borders. Without stopping to think about what he might say any further, Nash tilted his head back and let out a slow, mournful call to Viorel - and only Viorel. The warning to others who might answer was clear in his voice.
This was to be a conversation between leaders, between fathers.