Sunset Valley Harvesting

a roll of his eyes as she so wistfully speaks, proclaiming what she sees and simply not what she knows. ulfric spins towards her, halting at once, pinning her with arctic irises. old wounds, it is gruff now.
not a call of war.
after dismissing her observations, he turns fast. tracking yet again, nose ruffling through growth, both fresh and wilted by frost.
but now his mind wanders. the tension in his shoulders tightens. he has heard men say such things before: but his heart does not beat for war. not anymore.
"they are close." his paws shift forward; following the faint trail until a splash of red breaks against the green and brown of the woodland floor.
"here." a chuff and the pointed direction of his nose.