The struggle continued in even getting his belt tied, strapping the handle to his waist with it. If he could get the sled attached to him and just kept moving, perhaps he could make it to camp without collapsing. The bull was momentously heavy, despite its youth, and it was going to take a lot of effort to even get the thing moving in the first place. But if he didn’t want a single rock to be his downfall, he had to make sure the makeshift log sled was secure. He grimaced, his arms failing to respond how he’d like, feeling weak and overused. He was sure his efforts would leave him sore in the morning, and likely far into his next hunt, but he would not allow that to stop his attempts to bring his prize back to camp. He had to make it back, had to make sure nothing stole his catch out from underneath him after he’d worked so hard to get it in the first place.
Before tying on the belt, he’d retrieved his arrow from the spring water, unstringing his bow and securing it to his pack. He thought for a moment of digging into his emergency rations, but decided against it. He had a full bull moose he was dragging through the valley, and there was sure to be something he could eat that nobody else at Wind Reach would want. Perhaps the genitals or some of the bones. He’d heard a story from his former hunting master that if you cracked a bone in half, there was a liquid inside that was extremely nutritious. Apparently, fresh antlers were full of the best of it, and if you could cut them off and plug the hole, roasting them over the fire made it taste good enough to live off of for a while.
After making sure the straps were secure, he leaned forward and tried to march. He didn’t budge, the weight of the bull too great for the amount of force he was putting forth. But as he grew more and more frustrated, he became more and more determined, leaning further into the sled grip with every step until he was nearly at a 45 degree angle with the ground. Suddenly, he lurched forward, stumbling slightly, before picking up a slow but steady pace. He was working as hard as if he was hiking up a moderately steep incline, going about as fast as a leisurely stroll, but it was better than going nowhere and exhausting himself in the process. He guessed that at this rate, if he continued, he’d be able to reach the place he’d laid the traps before midnight, and reach the Forward Camp less than an hour after that.
The air slowly became more and more chilled, still clinging to the gentle heat of summer but making way for the winds of winter. The coolness was not uncomfortable, far from it, keeping Marrin from overheating as he trudged slowly through the rocky foothills and scattered trees. He took several breaks, catching his breath and inhaling the fresh air he adored so much, the sharp scent of pine sap floating on the night breeze. The sky was clear, clear enough to stargaze, and Marrin took every opportunity to do so, choosing to look up rather than forward on particularly long flat stretches or whenever he took the chance to sit. If he didn’t pay enough attention while walking he tripped, but the injuries he sustained were all very minor and not enough to deter him from looking to the stars.
Marrin held within him the deeply engrained love of the sky that all Inarta had, though his flew beyond the clouds and into the realm of Zintila. He’d always had a quiet admiration for the stars, admiring their beauty and silent grace. He wasn’t sure what to make of them, knowing nothing more of them than the name of the goddess associated with them, and nothing more of the goddess than her name. He tried for a moment to find the brightest star in the sky, eventually noticing it hanging above the peak of Mt. Skyinarta to the north. He decided to make a note of that, that the brightest star in the sky was to the north. He wasn’t sure if it would move or not, some stars did and others did not, but he tried to make a subconscious reminder to check next time the stars shone so brightly.
When he eventually arrived at the site where he’d left his traps, his heart fell like a stone. “I guess antler is all I eat tonight.” The bait had been taken, the traps sprung but empty. He crouched down, inspecting each trap as he collected it for reuse. It seemed he’d not tied the knots tightly enough, and that despite being caught the squirrels had not even had to chew the ropes to escape. With a huff he put the empty traps away in his bag, disappointed at the waste of time and energy.
When he finally reached the camp, his legs collapsed beneath him next to the fire pit. The march had taken five bells to go a little over a mile and a half, far from record time. He’d had to stop regularly to gather his breath, strength and motivation to continue, especially after the disappointment the traps had caught for him. He was eager to untie his belt, letting the structure with the dead bull moose hit the ground with a loud thump. One of the branches of the frame snapped, making it lopsided and useless. Marrin snarled at his misfortune, hoping he could eat before going to bed. Otherwise his stomach would be furious with him come morning. |