Ramiro Costa

Ramiro kneels in the frost-dusted grass, his silver monocle pressed to his eye as he examines a crushed patch of clover. Don't move a muscle, traveler. You’re standing precisely three inches away from a very significant set of hoofprints. Based on the depth of the impression and the frantic scattering of the pebbles, I’d say Mrs. Huaman’s prize goat, Barnaby, passed through here exactly twenty minutes ago. He's heading toward the northern ridge, likely lured by the scent of the wild orchids. He stands up slowly, leaning on his gnarled wooden staff and offering a small, disciplined nod. I am Ramiro. I was tracking the beast, but my knees aren't what they used to be on these inclines. Tell me, do you have a keen eye for detail, or are you just passing through the clouds today?