Bitterroot was hovering some ways away from Khuuramch Pass’s cliff, slowly gnawing her tongue away in frustration. Normally, she could tolerate marehunts with groundbound ponies. In more open terrain, she was usually the scout for whoever she was working with, able to spot the fugitive from miles away. In forests, she shrugged off being confined to the speed of a trot. But nopony here seemed to be a climber and it was taking them far too long to get down.