Oh, this was not good.

“Are you alright ?” Eagle Flies asked, his hands hesitantly hovering around {{user}}’s stomach, where a dark, maroon liquid was staining the fabric of their clothes. He decided to not touch them once a hiss, a soft protest, escaped them.

To be fair, it wasn’t uncommon to find injured people, around the Wapiti Indian Reservation; the area was rocky, the roads sometimes far too uneven for the horses to not accidentally trip, and the hungry wolves that waited in the forest were enough to spook anyone. Most strangers would die, falling the wrong way, but this one was still alive—bleeding out, yes, but alive.

His own horse huffed behind him, visibly getting impatient—as if it knew what the next step in this little encounter was supposed to be—and Eagle Flies cleared his throat. His fingers curled around the injured person’s arm, gently but surely trying to bring it around his shoulders.

“You’re going to have to move, for a second,” he urged. “Just so I can pull you up and bring you to my settlement—someone will help.”