Mercy of Nature

[Jarhal Treeshadow]

27th day of Spring, 511AV The Sea of Grass whipped about with waves and ripples. Far in the distance there were black clouds, with forks of silver lightning flashing out like a serpent's fangs. A hooded Jarhal Treeshadow sat in the yvas on his strider, Topher, and watched the storm as it crawled across the sky like a slug. One hand grasped the reins and the other held a bow slanted across the top of the minimalist saddle, with an arrow already knocked and a full quiver on his green-cloaked back. They were keeping dry well out of the storm's area, and not just to avoid the rain. Lightning storms on the plains were dangerous places to be when you stood feet taller than most anything on the ground. Safety was a concern as always, but there was another reason for why the emerald hunter was all the way out here. Animals did not like storms any more than humans did. They would flee their flooding holes and warrens and dens, flee directly in Jarhal's direction if Caiyha was smiling upon him. And if she was not, well, he'd just have to rely on the luck he could make. He didn't need to tell Topher to begin walking forward, the strider already knew. The bond between horse and Drykas was a personal matter, different for every rider in little ways, but for Jarhal it was plainly instinctual. They each knew their own jobs and even the jobs of one another. Topher walked in a nice and easy stride, picking his legs up high to avoid being tripped by anything. With the patch of tall grass covering much of his legs, he looked truly like a boat sailing through a sea of green. Jarhal felt like he might drown if he fell off into these waves, he would sink to the bottom without a struggle and never be found again. His eyes scanned through the grass as he thought all of this. They never stopped scanning, his head wagged back and forth like a dog's tail. Maybe he should have brought Chural along too... Something caught his gaze, a flash of blonde and brown fur through the slits of green grass, and suddenly the hunt was on. Topher broke into a gallop in the same moment Jarhal rose up to stand in his saddle, the fur-ringed hood of his emerald cloak thrown back by the sudden rush of the wind on his face. Though he did not know it, his face was a mask of determination and calm. He was a force of nature now, a predator of instinct and patient savagery. They were not separate then, the man and the horse, but a fused-together beast chasing it's prey. On the plains of Cyphrus there were very few things that could keep up with a strider(much less outrun one), and a simple fox was not among them. Jarhal picked it out of the grass as Topher pulled him closer and closer, he could see it's damp silky fur shining in the sunlight. He stood with a slight bend to his knee to absorb the shock of his mount's stride cleanly while he pulled up his bow. As time seemed to slow to a crawl, Jarhal was close enough to see the fox look back just once and meet his eye. Terror was what he saw there, terror and the peculiar hope all prey had when they still earnestly believed they could escape. The hunter had seen this look many times. Nature gave no mercy. He drew back his arrow and fired. The projectile seemed to veer in the wind and made a strange turn just enough to miss the fox. Jarhal was retrieving another arrow before it could hit the ground, and drew back his bow yet again. This time the arrow sailed to it's mark, just as the fox leapt and avoided it. It was difficult to feel complicated emotions while adrenaline was pumping through your veins and time was moving in slow motion, but frustration welled inside of Jarhal. He drew back his bow a third time, and this time the fox's luck ran out. The arrow took it in the stomach and knocked the animal off balance to tumble into the grass. It stirred weakly but didn't bother to try and run. Topher reared up and wheeled around to a stop nearby the dying animal, and Jarhal sprang from the saddle. He drew his knife from his belt and held it in one hand, running over to find his prize. Halfway to the dying fox, his pace began to slow to a jog and then to a walk. He stopped altogether a short pace from the struggling fox. It laid on the ground with the grass bending around it, breathing shallowly with the arrow rising and falling in it's belly. For the second time, Jarhal met the animal's eyes and saw into it. This time he did not see terror and he did not see hope. There was just pain and resignation. It's fur was still wet from the storm it had fled. Fleeing one danger only to be caught by another. Did Jarhal feel guilty for it's fate? No. Nature gave no mercy. The hunter, however, could give some. He stepped forward and knelt, grasping the fox's head firmly in one hand and slicing it's throat with his knife. As the animal's last quick seconds of life passed by, Jarhal prayed from where he knelt. He gave silently prayers of thanks to Caiyha, the First Druid, for this kill. If she listened or not didn't truly matter to him, he did not do this in some attempt for her approval. He did this in respect to the prey. It deserved to have at least a little bit of ceremony over it's death. If humans deserved elaborate funerals, then why didn't a fox deserve a few words of thanks? "I will remember you." He whispered when he finished his silent prayer, looking down on his trophy. The fox's fur was a beautiful swirling of white and yellow and red, smooth as silk when it dried. He decided that he would have a hat made out of it.