August 19th; Afternoon; Few Clouds; 78.71° F, 25.95° C.
Thoval wiped the blood from his maw, smearing red across the white of his muzzle and the back of his forepaw. For such a measly little squirrel, the poor thing had made such a mess. His stained tongue emerged and clung to the right side of his lip before withdrawing again. He coughed, a bit of fur dislodged from the back of his throat.
A snort and sigh followed the roll of his shoulders and the stretch of his neck. The incident of him stalking and attacking some random male up north was but a distant nightmare now. One giant marvelous fiasco from someone who knew how to kill for sport. He had been reckless; though, it wasn't for the first time in his life. Thoval was no stranger to disappointment.
Ugly ridges and folds formed across the bridge of his nose as he curled his lips back, wincing. Gods, that still hurt. His ears folded flat as he lifted his right hind foot, his knee aching where the brute Adelard had landed a good bite. Whisperer be damned...
A hiss emitted from him as his eyes went up to the smoky views of the face of the mountain. He coughed, regretting a deep inhale. Wherever the fires were, they weren't in his neck of the woods. Stinging eyes and nostrils aside, he was determined to reunite with his band of misfits.