Three Years Ago.
Tud'or lay on a crude bed of hay that had been stained dark red by his blood. His normally sturdy body looked disturbingly weak, his chest rising and falling with every labored breath as sweat rolled down the sides of his face. Several of his scales had been burned black, and beneath them the skin was blistered and charred from the inside out.
The smell of burnt flesh still lingered around him, mixing with the dry scent of hay and the faint metallic smell of blood.
Tong'a sat beside the makeshift bed, his staff resting against his shoulder as he stared at the ground with a deep frown. He had already spent hours examining Tud'or's injuries, and the more he understood about what had happened, the more irritated he became.
