Henpelt was not in a great state of mind, to say the least. Ever since the blow to both his leg and pride, and his acquiescing to outside assistance, the Havana Brown had been plagued with similar dreams over and over again whenever he slipped into the realm of unconsciousness.
Nevertheless, he continued on. It was the middle of the night, and Henpelt wad in the medicine den doing his best to resist rest’s siren song. It sung to him at all hours, and its instruments of choice were warmth and exhaustion. Still, he resisted. The few times the frail warrior had given in to temptation, he’d been punished dearly. He didn’t intend to make the same mistake again.
Unlike seemingly every other situation in his life, the schemer had no plan to overcome this obstacle. This was not some physical, palpable threat that he could stave off with claws or distance, and that fact scared him to his core.