"Fucksake."
The man in red wiggled his bare toes. Fuckin' stones, he thought, shifting pebbles out of his way with his feet. Fuckin' stupid stones.
A cold wind blew. The man hugged his robes tighter around himself. Though we was well-dressed and larger than most Posc, out in the wastes he was a tiny pillar of blood in wide open space.
'Blood' meaning both his stained clothes, and the lifeforce which flowed inside his humanoid shell. There were others who would steal such things...
...Such as the woman who was tracking him.
She sniffed close to the ground, following his trail. Even as she did, she left her own - her thick, sticky drool running down from her chin to the pebbles, tracing back into a thin line of frost.
The Sargeant had spent too long hanging around, shuffling the earth. Madame Midden, a hunter most famous, was looming dead behind him now.
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