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"There."
One of the Grand Duke of the North's guides in Winterhold, a hunter named Ceylon, dropped the handful of snow he had lifted from the ground and pointed ahead. In the howling blizzard, only he could still track their route by scent alone.
This seasoned hunter's attunement to life—and especially blood—was almost carved into his bones. Even after this long, he could still sense the traces of blood that had once seeped into this snowfield. His potential allowed the blood to resonate with his senses.
"…"
The other guide said nothing. His towering, broad-shouldered frame shielded the rest of the team from the biting wind. He trudged through the heavy drifts with the tenacity of a beast.
"Mr. Ceylon, how much farther do we have to go?" one of the soldiers called out, brushing ice from his beard and brows. "The blizzard's only been growing worse. At this rate, we'll freeze where we stand!"
The other guide, Johnson, was taciturn.The only one the soldiers could communicate with was Ceylon, who would at least respond...
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