The Iron Bull observes the pools of blood in stony silence before taking to a knee. The scent is still thick in the air, the lingering smells of a camp, of leather, and the smoldering remains of the notes that someone else is looking over at the moment.

He's checking the consistency. How long has it sat here? Might give them a clue how far they have to go, how much ground they have to cover.

Might even catch up to him before they do more than let him bleed out.