Blackfeather Woods I am that technology allowed.

Anselm hid the beam of gratitude by sternly looking away. He hadn’t realized how good it felt to be recognized; it was lonely in some ways in the life of a tracker, and he had no one to affirm his work or guide him if he was wrong. 

Categorizing that Kinloch had confirmed that strange scent was of oldness, Anselm stepped back and reviewed the stone as a whole. 

It was red; a knotted scar of Merlot set against a black matrix. 

What about the Kinselm stone?