23rd Fall, 510 AV
Wooded valley near Kalinor
Sina beat upon Viridae's neck, and sweat beaded heavily at his brow. He raised his gloved hand and wiped it clean, careful not to let its trickle into his eyes. The sun's glare was enough to impede his vision, he did not need the sting of sweat to add to it.
"Its not far now," Valydor grunted over his shoulder, as he trudged through four inch piles of birch leaves. Viridae was glad. They had been walking in the sun for nearly two bells in search of a valley where Valydor has shot Sparrow Hawk in the past. Usually, Viridae would trap them and pluck the feathers, but the experienced hunter had told him that here they had to hunt lower to the ground because of the wind being squeezed between the mountains.
"Shot at least half a dozen a week ago," he had said casually at the sickle and arrow as Viridae was taking his morning meal of onion and turkey soup.
And now here he was, trudging under the sun. He hopped against hope the old spider was not loosing his mind.
As they crested a small hillock, the pair stood before a vast valley ignited with the bright reds and oranges of early autumn. At first glance, the skies seemed clear, certainly not dotted with a sparrowhawk. But just as Viridae was about to inquire as to rather or not this was the correct valley, a distinct high pitched squawk sounded, as a blue and brown dot barreled into the ground and swiftly arched back into the skyline.
Wooded valley near Kalinor
Sina beat upon Viridae's neck, and sweat beaded heavily at his brow. He raised his gloved hand and wiped it clean, careful not to let its trickle into his eyes. The sun's glare was enough to impede his vision, he did not need the sting of sweat to add to it.
"Its not far now," Valydor grunted over his shoulder, as he trudged through four inch piles of birch leaves. Viridae was glad. They had been walking in the sun for nearly two bells in search of a valley where Valydor has shot Sparrow Hawk in the past. Usually, Viridae would trap them and pluck the feathers, but the experienced hunter had told him that here they had to hunt lower to the ground because of the wind being squeezed between the mountains.
"Shot at least half a dozen a week ago," he had said casually at the sickle and arrow as Viridae was taking his morning meal of onion and turkey soup.
And now here he was, trudging under the sun. He hopped against hope the old spider was not loosing his mind.
As they crested a small hillock, the pair stood before a vast valley ignited with the bright reds and oranges of early autumn. At first glance, the skies seemed clear, certainly not dotted with a sparrowhawk. But just as Viridae was about to inquire as to rather or not this was the correct valley, a distinct high pitched squawk sounded, as a blue and brown dot barreled into the ground and swiftly arched back into the skyline.
