Frostfire Ridge Echo

AW but looking for @Astier

the ridge was quiet, wind-whistled and silvered with late frost. faust moved through it like shadow and stone, broad form cleaving the mist as he stalked toward the next rise. the morning was sharp—cold against the scarred cut of his face, breath turning to smoke with every exhale.
he was hunting.
but not for deer, nor caribou. not this time.
no fresh scent had crossed the snowdrifts. not since the storm. faust had searched the glacier first, then the basin, now the ridgelines where the winds pulled clean and high. where a wanderer might go to vanish.
each step was measured. he paused often, nose to the wind, scanning for a flash of pale fur or the burnt scent of blood in snow. the kind of man who did not panic—only grew colder, quieter, more determined. the wind lifted the dark ruff at his shoulders, and still he pressed on, eyes narrowed.