11th Day of Summer
The Bronze Woods
15th Bell
The hunter was glad for the riot of life that had possessed the woods, but he cursed it, too. The bare trunks and dirt of winter would have provided neither cover nor game for him; now the ground was thick, choked, alive and positively writhing with vegetation of all kinds. He could barely even see the dirt. Vines wound their way up trees, countless trillions of leaves obscured the sun... and even his own hesitant movements, crouched and in the shadows of ancient trees, were hidden from view.
But that worked both ways. The hunter had cut his teeth in the jungles of the far west, a place where the weak and slow were devoured by the cunning and strong without so much as a qualm. You were hunter or hunted or endlessly running, and that was all to it. The woods here were far different - he'd never seen so many trees completely devoid of poisons - but the barest hum of... life, of the Green Goddess, Caiyha... it made him remember home.
Hers and his.
Razkar sniffed the air and the scent teased his nose again. Boar, he'd bet his wrinkled ball sack on it. Not clean enough for a deer, not dry enough for a rabbit... yes, a familiar stench of dried mud, foul body odor and rotting food still clinging to the tusks. He crouched down and dark eyes scanned the ground...
Then stopped on the familiar blunt, two-toed imprints. Deep, too... heavy. A proud male or a female with young, the Myrian wondered and his fingertips brushed the track. He hoped it was the former. No point killing the next generation off before you got hungry again.
He rose and straightened briefly, scowling into the endless, impenetrable vegetation. Shades of Falyndar, most definitely. But the canopy was not nearly as tall and thick, dozens, hundreds of gleaming swords shafting through the leaves and branches to pierce the ground with sunlight. He stretched sore shoulders and narrowed his eyes. East... it was heading east.
The young male grimaced briefly, rubbing a face in need of a shave (which, for a Myrian, meant he hadn't taken a blade to it for over a month). That would be problematic. He was north of Syliras, using the Bronze Watchtower that rose above all as his directional anchor on his hunt. But further east, he boar would go on and on and vanish into the vast expanse of the deep woods, where Razkar would not go. Too easy to get lost, for one, and for another, even a master swordsman could only do so much against an enraged wolf pack (which they would be, should he invade their territory).
Other things, too, he thought morosely as he made his plans, taking a swig of water, more than fur and claw in the deep woods...
Razkar cursed softy and shrugged. He would do his best. Stay low, try to keep downwind and follow this boar to whatever water source or mud hole it was sticking to. When he got close enough, the shortbow he held ready would come into play, quiver of arrows over his back.
Along with not much else, either. The Myrian wore but sandals and loincloth along with his ever-present weapons harness, preferring the freedom of movement and liberation from the barbarian delusion of "modesty". Too petching hot to pay lip service to that, anyway...
Something stirred beyond the treeline and he ducked, notching an arrow. Something... bigger than he was expecting, just in the clearing. He was fast learning that the Bronze Woods were teeming with such places, expanses of felled trees or grass that were untouched by the vegetation. Animals frequented them, especially deer...
Razkar licked his lips. Always a chance. Why not?
Moving swift and careful across the ground, staying away from brittle twigs and dry leaves, Razkar flitted towards the treeline, hoping to spy something proud and tasty down the length of his arrow.
The Bronze Woods
15th Bell
The hunter was glad for the riot of life that had possessed the woods, but he cursed it, too. The bare trunks and dirt of winter would have provided neither cover nor game for him; now the ground was thick, choked, alive and positively writhing with vegetation of all kinds. He could barely even see the dirt. Vines wound their way up trees, countless trillions of leaves obscured the sun... and even his own hesitant movements, crouched and in the shadows of ancient trees, were hidden from view.
But that worked both ways. The hunter had cut his teeth in the jungles of the far west, a place where the weak and slow were devoured by the cunning and strong without so much as a qualm. You were hunter or hunted or endlessly running, and that was all to it. The woods here were far different - he'd never seen so many trees completely devoid of poisons - but the barest hum of... life, of the Green Goddess, Caiyha... it made him remember home.
Hers and his.
Razkar sniffed the air and the scent teased his nose again. Boar, he'd bet his wrinkled ball sack on it. Not clean enough for a deer, not dry enough for a rabbit... yes, a familiar stench of dried mud, foul body odor and rotting food still clinging to the tusks. He crouched down and dark eyes scanned the ground...
Then stopped on the familiar blunt, two-toed imprints. Deep, too... heavy. A proud male or a female with young, the Myrian wondered and his fingertips brushed the track. He hoped it was the former. No point killing the next generation off before you got hungry again.
He rose and straightened briefly, scowling into the endless, impenetrable vegetation. Shades of Falyndar, most definitely. But the canopy was not nearly as tall and thick, dozens, hundreds of gleaming swords shafting through the leaves and branches to pierce the ground with sunlight. He stretched sore shoulders and narrowed his eyes. East... it was heading east.
The young male grimaced briefly, rubbing a face in need of a shave (which, for a Myrian, meant he hadn't taken a blade to it for over a month). That would be problematic. He was north of Syliras, using the Bronze Watchtower that rose above all as his directional anchor on his hunt. But further east, he boar would go on and on and vanish into the vast expanse of the deep woods, where Razkar would not go. Too easy to get lost, for one, and for another, even a master swordsman could only do so much against an enraged wolf pack (which they would be, should he invade their territory).
Other things, too, he thought morosely as he made his plans, taking a swig of water, more than fur and claw in the deep woods...
Razkar cursed softy and shrugged. He would do his best. Stay low, try to keep downwind and follow this boar to whatever water source or mud hole it was sticking to. When he got close enough, the shortbow he held ready would come into play, quiver of arrows over his back.
Along with not much else, either. The Myrian wore but sandals and loincloth along with his ever-present weapons harness, preferring the freedom of movement and liberation from the barbarian delusion of "modesty". Too petching hot to pay lip service to that, anyway...
Something stirred beyond the treeline and he ducked, notching an arrow. Something... bigger than he was expecting, just in the clearing. He was fast learning that the Bronze Woods were teeming with such places, expanses of felled trees or grass that were untouched by the vegetation. Animals frequented them, especially deer...
Razkar licked his lips. Always a chance. Why not?
Moving swift and careful across the ground, staying away from brittle twigs and dry leaves, Razkar flitted towards the treeline, hoping to spy something proud and tasty down the length of his arrow.
