Vice moved through the Western Hunting Ground with a grace that transcended mere physical movement; it was a flowing, seamless continuity with the land itself.
The rough terrain, a tangle of roots, loose stones, and dense undergrowth that would have snagged or slowed a mortal traveler, seemed to yield to him.
Each step was an act of precision, barely disturbing the blanket of fallen leaves, leaving no trace of passage.
His silver hair, usually a vibrant beacon, was a muted, shifting flash of light against the deep greens and earthen browns of the ancient forest.
Though dressed in simple, unadorned traveling clothes, the forest responded to him with the deference one might reserve for a figure wearing the ceremonial robes of an ancient, revered king.
His sensory focus was not on the typical, tactical signs that Cass, or any conventional adventurer, needed to hunt, the sharp snap of a dry twig, the tell-tale rustle of a beast's approach, the faint scent of fear.
