A noisy exhale stems from his nose, huffing akin to an elk catching wind of a predatory scent. Large paws shift upon the Pale, the ghostly plain stretching out with fog ever present—the partly cloudy sky and dimmer evening bringing a gloomy grey to settle over the atmosphere. The sun boy has his head low, nose sniffing, golden eyes searching. Hoofprints are pressed into the earth in front of him. A scrap of velvet on a nearby tree along the edge of the open plain. Helios steps forth, careful to keep from trending directly over the fresh prints.
Common language is spoken in
quotation marks, while French is in « guillemets »x
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