Shimmering Sands "it's calm before the storm, winslow."

lionel mayfair shot a cheeky look toward knaven, but hunger settled his need for joking to a better focus. he kept the track of the grazers, following it through bent heather and the fading scent of coast-wolf markings. on a low bluff he paused, for in the distance there was a single buck.
the rain had appeared to separate it from the herd, and as the warsaw hunter narrowed his gaze, he saw that it moved with a limp. the moors were great and long, but the two needed only to wear it down.
cunning glance to his brother, and then he was off, trotting openly through the low foliage toward the injured animal.