Barking erupts from the woods. A small puppy, fur matted with blood, rushes over to the group and barks anxiously, trying to gain their attention. It starts towards the woods, then back to the harvesters. The pup barks once more, then bounds towards the woods, back to where his bleeding master lies. The pup stops at the forest's entrance, bright eyes gazing at the harvesters before a large, pained cry fills the air. The pup's ears prick up, and it bounds into the forest.<br/><br/>Lazarus slowly crawls forward, snow sticking to his face and clothes. "Damn," He curses, and coughs into a mound of powdery, white snow. "I guess this is where it ends. Shot by bandits, only to live long enough to escape. Just to bleed to death by a fucking tree." He gives out a small, shuddering laugh. "And Cuan is gone. I had hoped he had more loyalty to at least wait until I was dead. Ach. He is hungry, I suppose." The Irishman stretches out his right hand, grasps his fingers around a small rock and pulls himself forward. Slowly, almost lethargically, he lifts his head and looks behind him, to see the trail of blood that his wounded leg has left behind. The cold snow slowly is numbing his body, "Damn, which is gonna kill me first? Frostbite....infection....or the damnable blood loss?" Lazarus' face drops into the snow, finally giving up hope of surviving.<br/><br/>Cuan follows the trail of blood to Lazarus, and yips in excitement. The runt darts around to Lazarus' face and and licks his cheek, warming up the cold man's face with his warm breath. The pup curls up against the man, pressing his fur against him, waiting for the harvesters to show up. A whimper seeps out when a weak hand slowly presses against the small and frail body.