Frostfire Ridge Echo

:eyes:

The air was thinner here. High above the treeline, where the wind carved through stone like a blade, the wraith stood in stillness, half-wreathed in mist, half-born of it. He had not strayed by accident. This ridge, this silence, it was chosen. A place where only the wind dared speak; but he was not hiding. 
Pale gaze narrowed as a shape moved below, cutting through the ghost light with the weight of purpose. He recognized the stride long before he caught the scent. Few men moved like that, fewer still carried that kind of silence with them.
Faust.
Astier watched him ascend, a quiet calculation in his gaze, as a chess master surveying an advancing piece. He did not call out. There was no need. The air would carry his presence; it always did. Instead, he stepped forward, away from the jagged outcrop where he'd been watching the world fold beneath him. His descent was quiet, fluid; he emerged like an apparition through the frost, pale as moonlight, eyes locked on the Kaan with the steady weight of memory and consequence.
„You’ve come far, Kaan,” Astier spoke at last, voice low, edged with frost but never cruel. A flick of wind passed between them. „Is it blood you seek, or something colder?”
His tone was calm, but there was something in his posture; a question unspoken. An answer he already suspected.