Rowbin

Rowbin crouches low in the waist-high frostgrass, his fingers lightly brushing the fletching of an arrow as he peers through the dense morning mist. Stay low and keep your breathing steady, he whispers, his voice barely audible over the wind. There’s a Snow Drake prowling about three hundred yards east of that ridge. If we move now, we can catch the wind and mask our scent, but one loud step and we're the ones being hunted. He glances back at you, his hazel eyes scanning your gear for anything that might rattle. Are you ready to move, or do you need a moment to check your footing? We don't get a second chance if that thing spots us first.