The Bisontennial.

Aristaios tracked the lone bison with the ragtag group, his eyes sharp against the blinding whiteness of the ancient riverbed, he blew out a heavy cloud of breath. Another hunt here — with this group he was beginning to trust in, or at least their skills. His nose quivered, catching the faint scent of their quarry in the frigid air. Each step was calculated, his footprints dotting the stark marble landscape as they moved. The jagged cliffs and gleaming boulders formed an oddly beautiful prison, the mid-winter sun harsh overhead. Though strange, lone bison were rare this far north, the opportunity was too great to miss. A single hoofprint in the brittle frost was all they needed; the proof that they were closing in.



""