Blackfeather Woods I am that technology allowed.

Anselm hung behind, letting Kinloch get the first glance and sniff. A belated pang of something akin to professional envy washed over him momentarily as Kinloch's nose got the first draught -- if he hadn't been such a weenie, maybe that should have been him.

His eyes snapped back to the portrait in the stone. The edges were blurred, barely registering a shade or two darker than the matrix it sat in. The composite was dark; centuries of mineral deposits had washed away anything biological, leaving a dark stain in an otherwise crisp canvas.

Whatever it was did not speak to Anselm. He felt a pounding in his ears and a sudden spike of anxiety. The figure stared back at him, but Anselm couldn't tell where its eyes were. Instead, he felt as if it were a predator looming from the rock, somehow trapped between bedrock and sandstone for millennia.

His nose twitched as he recognized scent particles around it. Stone, earth, dirt, and minerals he could not name. That other scent floated by his peripherals and left. It's definitely dead, right? He was ready to sprint away at a moments notice.