Silver Moraine chase

the trail was fresh—crushed grass, churned mud, the sharp, heady musk of elk clinging to the underbrush like old smoke.
faust's nose dipped low, drawn along the winding scentline, each breath deep and certain. this was not the fevered sprint of a young hunter, nor the measured pace of one seeking to teach. this was the march of a man with purpose.
a low rumble left his chest, not a sound meant for her, but one stirred by memory. old hunts. old scars. they're not far, he murmured, eyes scanning the ridgeline ahead. a small herd. two bulls. one’s limping.
his glance flicked sideways, toward tikigak.
we take the weak one. clean.