Broken Boulder where the river narrows

staying vague till the raid outcome can be plotted

mahler's body protested viciously that morning, for he was not a young man, and neither had rivenwood killed in largesse. whatever could be found was given to the young ones first, and snowbound, he had not been able to search for marble.
there was a call upon the wind, a lull in the snow. the gargyole appeared over the small rise leading away from the boulder. his pawsteps were wearied but stoneflower eyes wore curiosity — a breath spiraling out as a plume of steam. mahler regarded the arctic man and presumably his smaller hazel-eyed wife with a long look. "this is rivenvood. i am mahler, the graf. vhat can i do for you?"