It was too quiet in the Bronze Wood; even the rustling of the leaves in the trees overhead had stopped for once. In the middle of a clearing a rabbit was lingering by a puddle of water. It thought it heard something and sat up instantly, listening and looking around, trying to see what had- Roderick’s arrow pierced the rabbit straight through its neck, pinning it to the floor. He awkwardly untangled himself from the bush he was hiding in and went over to claim his prize, tying it to his belt and leaving it to dangle. He’d lost count of how long it’d taken him to get this measly little git; the leaves and twigs on the ground kept scaring the thing and sending it shooting off into the undergrowth. After the second time it happened, he made extra sure to place his feet slowly and carefully in hopes of making any noises quieter. He looked around the clearing and let himself feel the warmth of the sun warming his bones; knowing he couldn’t come back to the city with just a rabbit, he started looking around for some tracks to follow; the leaves weren’t so thick here, and the grass and mud turned out to be good for making them; he found a few hoof prints in some soft mud and started follow them like a trail of breadcrumbs out of the clearing. On his way out he tripped and nearly fell head first into another bush; he managed to tuck into a crude roll and ended up seated on his backside beside the bush; he released a string of curses that would've made a maid blush if there’d been one to hear. He got back up and started following the tracks again; he lost them a few minutes down and spent five chimes searching around in the grass and leaves for where they’d gone; he angled himself so any tracks he found would be caught by the sunlight, outlining all the details for him to see. When he finally found a small ring of squashed mud he followed it further, his fingers became coated in dirt and little bits of leaves. He walked carefully alongside the parts of the trail he could see, not bothering to check every track that had been made - instead he focused on the ones that had been made every few feet; checking each one would slow him down and he'd never catch what his quarry. For another ten chimes, following the tracks wherever he found them, raking aside leaves and grass to find them when they vanished, he tried to get a little more practice at walking quietly; every now and then, when he was sure he was alone, he deliberately walked over the leaves, taking light, careful steps to minimize the noise. As he made his way through a particularly leafy space of ground he took extra care not to make any sound, in case his prey was near. When he finally found a fresh set of tracks his boots were filthy and his grimy hands itching to throttle the creature. He'd decided the prints weren't the right shape for a boar - he'd tracked one before during his contest with Wade. Peering at them now and then, never stopping too long to gawk at any one, he'd gone through the different hoof prints he knew about and had decided they were a deer's. All the same he prepared himself for a fight in case he had made a terrible error. He stopped to try firing off a few arrows at a nearby tree; he needed all the practice he could get. He took up his archer stance, drawing the arrow back to his cheek and taking aim at the trunk; he let go of the string – twang! Thud! It hit in the middle – not a bad shot, all told. He notched another arrow and felt the strain in his arm and shoulder as he pulled the string right back to his cheek and held it there while he aimed; he loosed it as his muscles started complaining loudly. It fell a little low and slammed into what would be a man’s knee. He readied a third and felt his fingers sting as he loosed it; this time it actually hit next to the first; he was becoming better. Feeling more confident in his ability, he collected his arrows and set off looking for the tracks; he’d lost them anyway so spending the time to test his aim would help him later when he found his prey. He started off after the imprints and finally, after several chimes, found that they led to a deer; it stood near a bush, chewing on strands of grass; he nearly hooted in joy, but instead he dropped down into a crouch and crept closer to get a better shot. He avoided a twig, remembering the effect standing on it had, and placed his feet between the patches of leaves. He drew up near a tree, arrow notched and string pulled back to his face, his arms taut with strain. The deer’s head shot up as he released a grunt of pain. It spooked and rushed away into the undergrowth; he pelted off after it, running as fast as he could, arms and legs pumping, bow swishing through the air. His feet made quite a bit of noise but he didn’t care; he wasn’t going to lose the thing after all this. He leapt over logs, staying on his feet but slowing down each time as he regained his balance, and skirted bushes, hounding the deer relentlessly. Eventually he realized he wasn’t going to catch it this way; it was too fast for him. His lungs were burning and his legs and arms complained loudly but he made himself keep going anyway; he slowed his legs, gradually going from a hobbling sprint into a steadier jog. He lagged behind it, his breathing ragged and heavy, but the deer seemed to slow down itself – it finally stopped a little ways down a trail. Hiding behind a tree, Roderick steadied his breathing, drawing air into his starved lungs. He waited until his breathing had slowed to a crawl, and then peered around the trunk; the deer was still there. He studied the path leading down to it; there were plenty of trees to hide behind on his way down, but the leaves and mud would probably make him slip, spooking the deer. He decided that either way he was going to have to make his way down – sooner was better than later. Stepping out from behind the tree, the hunter made sure his bow was ready, and then started his slow and careful descent down the trail; the leaves crunched beneath him, but the deer remained in place – it’d gone back to grazing. Every time he neared a tree he stopped to hide behind it and steady his breathing; the hunt was making him edgy. When he was close enough to see all the colours in its hide, he readied himself. His shoulders tightened and strained as pulled the string back to his cheek and aimed at the deer. He’d rather hit it in the head, but he couldn’t risk a miss; instead he pointed his arrow towards its rear. The string twanged noisily, the deer became alert again, and his arrow stuck itself in its backside. It took off, not so quickly this time, and Roderick took off after it again. He made sure to keep breathing as steadily as he could, so he wouldn’t run out of steam and lose the deer. He needn’t have worried so much; it legs began shaking and it was slowing down. Another arrow readied on the string, Roderick aimed at the deer and loosed. The string scraped his cheek as it went, and buried itself down into the deer’s side, making it run faster for a while. His eyes began to water and his lungs seared like a fire when it finally began to stop; its blood had leaked out all over its hide, drenching it. Roderick was soaked all over in sweat, and his stomach was twisting itself in knots. He notched another arrow, planning for it to be the last he fired. When it missed he cursed loudly and charged off after the deer again, struggling with another arrow as he tried to notch it. When it finally attached itself on, he slammed to a stop, feet skidding on the leaves, and loosed it; and it hit. The deer’s legs folded beneath it and it collapsed face-first into the dirt. It thrashed its legs and tried desperately to get up, but all the fight had gone out of it; its blood started spilling onto the ground. Roderick hobbled over to it and dumped his bow beside it, slipping his knife free from behind his back and sheathing it in the deer’s neck, cursing it loudly. His fingers were covered in its blood and his knife slipped from them, landing among the leaves. He collapsed to his knees and drew in great gulps of air; nothing had ever felt so good. He looked the deer over and was pleased to see it was a big fellow – good money would be made from it, though the thought of dragging its carcass back to the city made him all the angrier. The butcher had better give me a good price for you, or I’ll stick him too… Ten chimes later, Roderick was dragging the deer towards Syliras, talking heatedly to it about all the ways its meat was going to be cooked up and eaten. |
FIN
