The Floodlands I feel you in my arms, but you're hardly even with me

For @Silaluk

Observe and report. The job was simple -- but even the most simple tasks were necessary to the well being of the branch, to Tartok. A herd traveled north away from the mountain, cutting a trail of trampled brush in its wake. From the hoof prints in the muck, the hunter, Aklark, could estimate the size of the herd he tracked. There were six, perhaps seven, distinct trails that weaved into the flat lands. So, despite his enormity, Aklark followed the trail in a silent, careful, and almost ghost-like manner.

The trail led into a frozen murk. The run-off from from the mountains leading into the Floodlands ran dry in winter, yet the ground remained damp in the places that creeks once ran. The place became a half-frozen mire in which the freezing mud became a dirty slush. His paws sank into the earth, leaving deep imprints as Aklark pushed forward. 

The trail of hoof-prints continued onward. But as of yet, there was no herd in sight.