Moonspear the notes of a strained refrain

The elk herd was a small group, not even close to an average size. They sprawled out through the sparse woodland and meadows, toiling over the wilting grasses for the last tender shoots that would sustain them. He knew without question that the largest of herds had more than likely moved on towards the prairies to forage for scant grains and foliage, but this one seemed to follow its own path as though they were migratory like so many others.

It was a curious thing to witness, and for Dirge it never quite got old. Every year, the paths were different even when they fell along the old trails they had helped to weave through proverbial oceans of greenery come summer. He spied out more than one set of proud tines on antlers, but there was one in the middle that projected his prowess above all.

He began counting, first along the outskirts as they moved near silent, giving the group a wide berth as not to alert them. Chances were, they’d eventually become aware of the duo working near to their outskirts, but hopefully by then he and Atlas would be beating a retreat and avoid urging them along.

Casting a look to his son, he wondered in that gaze if Atlas saw anything promising.

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