At the sound of Tarans voice, there was a distant sound of crashing through leaves. In about fifteen seconds, Mack emerged from behind some bushes, twigs and leaves stuck to his skin. In one hand, he held a dead heron by its broken neck, its wings stuck together by slime. The short demon's eyes narrowed, assessing Taran's not quite healed wounds.<br/><br/>There was a pause, and then Mack's expression relaxed.<br/><br/>"You're up," he said, sounding relieved. And he was. After Taran had fell over at the edge of the river, Mack had dragged his one ticket home upstream and frantically tried to figure out what to do with the myriad of cauterized gashes all over Taran's torso. With no medical experience or equipment, the human born demon had resorted to keeping the insects off and stealing relatively clean fabric off a clothesline on the outskirts of town to use as bandages. Fortunately, it seemed like Taran's skin healed from burns quickly.<br/><br/>"You were out so long, I was beginning to think you weren't going to wake up," he continued. "Speaking of which, I brought lunch." He held up the dirty bird.