23 Summer, 513
The morning sun poked its head over the trees, sending long, tired shadows, in soft blues and purples across the forest. Dew collected on the leaves, and the birds began to sing their songs. It was still, as a lone deer bent to eat some of vegetation it needed to survive. It was on its way back to its bed, the deer would be moving into shelter, it would be to hot for them to forage as the sun continued to rise above the Syliran horizon. There was a slight creek, like a branch bending, the deer lifted its head lazily, looking for the source of the sound. It looked for almost a minute, before continuing to eat the delicious plant.
A man, not tall, not short, not bulky, and not skinny, stood motionless, a bow in his hand. It was a simple wooden bow, the bow itself was much shorten than a longbow, it was easier to mange on horse back, and in the thick woods outside the city. The bow quivered slightly, it was still hard to pull and hold, but the man needed to wait until just the right moment to release the arrow at the deer. Too soon, and the deer would jump at the sound of the bow, and the arrow would miss. Too late… well that one was obvious.
The man breathed deeply, and steadied his hand. He looked down the shaft at the deer, aiming at the sweet spot, just behind the shoulder blades. He breathed out, slowly, then breathed in again, as his lungs were filled with air, he released the arrow. The bow sang as the arrow flew towards the deer. The deer flinched, and there was a loud ‘thwack’ as the arrow found its mark.
This didn’t stop the deer, it ran west. The man cursed briefly, and chased the deer at a slow jog. It wasn’t hard to track, the deer in its wounded state, bled profusely, and made an obvious trail of broken sticks, and trampled undergrowth. The chase lasted almost an hour, before the deer had lost too much blood to continue its flight. It collapsed slowly, and let out a low moan, calling for aid, aid that would never come- not in anyway the deer would have expected, if you can say a deer would expect what would come next.
The man neared the deer, a small hunting knife caught the morning sun. It was pitted, and slightly tarnished, but the blade gleamed, and told of its sharpness. The deer bayed again, weaker, and more panicked now. The man quickly closed the gap, his pace told he hated to see the suffering of such an animal. In a brief, moment, the deer was dead, its suffering ended in a clean strike an arrow cannot deliver. By the time the messy work of field dressing was complete the sun was well above the horizon, and the deer weighed much less now, it was light enough for the man to carry.
The man picked up the carcass, and looked up at the sun, then continued south, towards his camp. He quickly began the work to preserve the meet of the deer, the salt and wrappings would allow the meat to last much longer, and he could always help his company with food. And Sylir knows that goes a long way to help with morale. It was noon, before the man had packed up his camp, and kill, and headed back towards the city. It would be almost evening before the gate would come into view.