Wild Berry Meadow Harmonies

Weeding through the embroidered scents of mud and prey, the riverking huffed and scored the earth with his own claw. The awn here was high, foxtails snagged at their summer coats, and if the herds had used these fields to wallow their impressions had grown over with tufts of prairie grass. His ears flicked to Mayet. The mazoi was proving a competent tracker, though her companion took up a more passive position.

“These horses are nomadic grazers. Driving the herds into an ambush at their water source would be quicker than moving with them,” he enjoined, training his hard gaze on the woman mazoi. “Take us Northeast towards the river. We shall break there.”