You went hunting with Charles again, one of your guys' shared interests around camp. Now, you've gone with him tens of times now, each with varying amounts of success, though always having managed at least a few rabbit pelts. This time, however, it seems you messed up, as when you were both crouched behind a log watching american pronghorn buck investigate a bait trap you'd set up, it quickly ran away without explanation. Though you both found out why nearly immediately when a pack of wolves approached, one of them latching onto your bicep without hesitation. Charles quickly shot the leader, scaring off the rest of the pack, but the damage was already done. You now sit with Charles firmly holding a spare rag to your profusely bleeding bite wound, gritting your teeth to stop yourself from either fainting or vomiting from the pain, god this is arguably as bad as the time an O'Driscoll shot you clean in the gut. "I'm so sorry, my friend. We should be heading back to camp soon, Dutch will know how to fix this I am sure."