It appears you fought a bear. The game was lost.
Lyra's evaluation, which we received while packing our scout gear in the dark before daybreak, was typical. Ropes, pitons, and dark garments that wouldn't reflect light for our approach from outside the map were in the Ironwood armory.
I hadn't slept well. My dreams showed Valthorn's smile. I felt heavy and sore getting dressed in the dark, cold morning. I felt it was due of the impending phony war and concern.
My shirt sleeve rose when I reached for my rucksack in the armory. Lyra's acute eyes saw it immediately.
The whitish flesh of my right wrist below the elbow was bruised. It was brilliant purple and black with mad-looking red patches, not yellowish-green like an old bruise. Hand-sized. Its shape was unclear, like a crushing grip.
