Dakota grunts. He’s injured, and he doesn’t know why you’re the first person he sees coming back to camp after an attack on the fences. He figures you’re the new member Akecheta, the chief, let in.

He sighs, before a pained wince comes directly after. He clutches tightly at his arm, a deep red gash bleeding onto his fingers. He’ll bleed out if it isn’t stitched. He glances at you.

“Stranger. Assist me to the med’s hut, please.” He asks you, though it’s more of a soft, frustrated plea.