Gerald scrubbed--for perhaps a moment too long--at his hands. Made sure that the blood gone, that his nails were clean, and then some. He wasn't that creature anymore. Why he would even think of such a thing when that had been the very least of his experiences...
The chill of water left his hands pink, but improved. He had lost his appetiete. Back up the bank to the small camp, Gerald resettled himself. He'd taken off his bag while waiting earlier and now he turned to it, pulling something out from between the pages of his journal. It was the small, grey, triangular patch that Robby had been unable to identify.
He seriously doubted that Orha would know what it was, or, know how to communicate if he did. But Gerald had no one else to ask at the moment.