Dawnlark Plains I can't hear it now

the air in the valley was quiet.
not the hush of peace, no—faust knew better than that. this stillness was one of waiting, of breath held behind every branch and thicket, of an earth that had not yet decided whether it would bloom or bleed.
he stood near the edge where frost still lingered in patches, the dark stone of his limbs mottled with old scars and recent dust. his eyes—green as the deep pine and just as cold—swept across the sprawl of the land below, where fog clung low and the early light turned every dew-laced blade of grass into a gleaming spear.
his nostrils flared. elk, faintly to the east. the passing musk of fox. the whisper of another wolf, far off and cautious.