Tracking the Lost

     They hung there, the smell of rot and decay clinging to their ivory surface as once had muscle and sinew. A diminutive figure on horse back raised a hand to the sky, shielding his face, "We must turn back Master, the Fates have left us their sign." 
     A raven cackled maliciously on a nearby branch. 
     "It is too late Igor," said the slender woman that stood beside her steed. She looked upon the grinning bones, cloaked in crimson, "The predator has become the prey." 
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