The weak and stale blood of the soldiers was a poor trail to follow. Silly thing had followed the road, and that made tracking all the harder, for he wouldn't--he moved in parallel to the road, following animal trails and avoiding the cavalry come out to terrorize the land. The old blood faded to nothing soon enough.

But then, the bouquet he could smell on the wind, oh! It was like nothing he had ever known before. That must be her.

The trail left the road, and he followed it, kneeling to examine the stains upon the dirt, to discern the subtleties of its scent, to pluck a bloodstained leaf from the ground and tilt his mask up just enough to taste it.

It seemed almost to glimmer upon the tongue. Oh, he had made the right choice. Her blood already held a spark of something special within it. It could only be improved by the gift of nobility.

The scent of it grew ever thicker as he continued on, and a little twist of worry wormed its way into his flesh. There wasn't enough spilled to be fatal, but what else had been done to her? How hurt was she?

Not so hurt that she couldn't respond to his approach, with the wary stance of a feral, cornered thing. And yet-- "Your wounds! Poor thing, let me see to them. Quickly now."