Loaf was still limpin'.
Not badly. He didna complain — he never did. But I noticed the way he favoured his left hind leg when he thought I wasna lookin'. The way he'd lie down more often. The way his appetite had dropped from insatiable to merely impressive.
The wound from the Syndicate patrol had healed on the surface. But somethin' beneath it wasna right.
I asked around. Traders, hunters, the old woman who ran the inn in the last village. Most shrugged. "Give it time." "He'll be fine." "Animals heal."
Then I met a traveller comin' up from the south.
A night elf, lean and weathered, with a bow across his back and an easy way of movin'. We shared a fire on the road, and somewhere between the stew and the second cup of tea, I mentioned Loaf's leg.
He looked at me with those ageless night elf eyes.
"There's a dwarf," he said. "Lives in Stranglethorn Vale. A game hunter. Takes in injured animals — big ones, dangerous ones. Knows 'em better than they know themselves. If anyone can help yer boar, it's him."
He gave me a name. A general location.
I thanked him and lay awake that night starin' at the stars, thinkin' about the road ahead.
Stranglethorn was far. South through the Highlands, past the Thandol Span, through the wetlands and into the jungle. Weeks of travel, with Loaf limpin' the whole way.
But if there was someone who could help him — really help him — it was worth the walk.
In the mornin', I turned south.
Loaf snorted. Shook his massive head. Then he followed, because that's what he does.
I hoped I was makin' the right choice.