Bartrum sniffed and twisted, bending at the waist and to the side, he lay a finger along one nostril and blew mightily. He did this three times in a row, switching to the other nostril just after. Wiping a thumb under his nose, he leaned back into the fire that his commander had set them to build. With a grumble at the cold, he hitched the cloak about his shoulders and stared at the flames. It was damned cold and they were in for a longer hunt than he had initially signed up for. 

"Shoulda found this gate long afore now," he grumbled for the tenth time in that last day. "With guards, nothin' woulda gotten through." 

Not one of the others responded. They'd long since tired of his complaints. There had been conversations about the truth of what he was saying, if the gate had been there before, or if it had come to be since the last census. Surely the Church hadn't known or there would have been a warming hut on the other side and guards. But then again, how could anything have survived being in these frozen wastes? What charter would they have to sign and with what country this time in order to ensure their prey could be declared and returned to their home? 

What prey was it in the end? Another faun? Those goat legged bastards were tough but not tough enough for these lands. It would be a relief to find one frozen in a bank instead of having to fight one down to the ground. The bites of those creatures tended toward festering, another of Bertram's complaints when he was on a real tear about his choice of employment. Fauns were plentiful and curious enough in the Green Wold. Their nastiness was merely a consequence of the world they lived in where all of the trophies were of an ill disposition. Green Wold was by far, the least favorite of Bertram's where the greatest challenge were the fearsome trolls which traveled the lands, were dumb as oxen, and ten times more dangerous than even the great lizards of Hinteryare. 

To be fair, only Ol' Bill had come across one while with the Church. The rest were subjected to his stories. 

Bartrum glowered at the wind, cursing it in silence, and turned his face away into it when one of the younger recruits began to sing, a hound or two choosing to join in when the boy's off-key voice sounded more like their squawking than the love song it was meant to be. The cold would cut that sort of silly behavior out of the boy soon enough. That, or their commander. He smirked and waited for the usual outburst to such drivel.