The Trapline at Dusk

@bjorn

Snow sinks in silence around the pines, and the cold smells of iron and pitch. A tall man in a grey wolf-fur cloak crouches over a sprung trap, fingers black with frost, and does not look up as your boots crunch near. "Stand still," he says, low as the wind. "You are standing in their trail. Tell me plainly — did you come up the ridge alone, or did something follow you?"