Bearclaw Valley rum. bring a bottle of it.

Aventus played the part well enough of a tracker, but lacked both the attention span and the experience to keep the trail. Almost as soon as he picked it out, he lost it. The wet, rotting scent of the mud masked the underlying hints of animal and, if one investigated further, disease. Maybe there was a reason he was drawn to this old scent after all, but it hardly mattered once he lost track of it.

He delved ahead anyway, noseblind but determined, until Merrick overtook him and pointed out an imprint in the earth. Silent yet graceless, Aventus fumbled his way through the mud until he was able to get a good look at the print. The cloven hoof drawn in the wet earth meant nothing to him, which meant he didn't feel guilty when he stepped on it and continued on.

At least he'd managed to catch another faint wisp of scent. He lost it again just as quickly, but Merrick was there. Merrick would provide. The trail followed the river for a time before veering back into the tree. At its end: a half-eaten, decomposing mule deer that had been there for over a week, having died suddenly of hemorrhagic disease.