7 Vhalar 716
The suns were just coming up as he left his small home, heading directly into the woods with his bow. Sigurd knew he needed to hunt that trial. The venison he'd scored the weeks before was running low, and he could only forage for so long before it was time again. He knew the woods well, probably better than many of the citizens in the city who'd lived there for arcs. The Uthaldrian took to the woods as he took to the Plains, with vigor and cunning.
Sigurd's bow was slung over his shoulder and his quiver clung tight to his hip. Both were positioned for optimal comfort and accessibility should he need them. But the walk was always uneventful, which brought a frown to his hair-covered lips. In the Fields, you were hunted as much as you were the hunter. The monsters in the Fields of Gauthrel were some of the most fearsome on Idalos, and Sigurd had faced them. Here, the woods seemed positively docile, which was both good and bad.
The Lothar sighed as he walked, intentionally quiet. He was going to set up in a tree, but he needed to make sure he didn't alert the wildlife around him to his presence, lest he wished to wait for breaks before they returned. His body, which was layered with thick mud, was bare except for a codpiece. Head to toe, mud caked his form, masking his natural musk and providing camouflage against the bark of the trees.
And so he kept his eyes out for twigs and branches that would snap under foot, and he sidestepped dried leaves on the ground. He had a favorite hunting spot, but it was a decent walk from his home, which was probably a good thing. The deer in the forest were large and plump, and the last thing he needed was for a curious doe to stumble into his vegetation storage. He'd be eaten out of home by his food. The thought brought a smile to his face.
Nearly half a break later, Sigurd arrived at his tree. Powerful arms lifted him into the lower branches, and practiced fingers plucked leaves from them. He pressed the leaves into the mud, layering it for more camouflage as he leaned back against the trunk. He kept his eyes open for any sign of the deer, and relaxed in his spot.
Hunting was just as much about patience as it was skill. You could track and hunt all day, but if you weren't patient, you'd catch nothing. It only took a break, which surprised Sigurd. The buck walked into the clearing in front of him, head bobbing as it nibbled grass. Sigurd smiled and admired the majesty of the animal before him. It had twelve spurs on its antlers, and was sizeable enough for Sigurd to eat plenty for a good long time. He slid the bow from its home and nocked an arrow, aiming at the front end of the deer. A perfect shot would bring it down immediately. A good shot would wound it fatally, and he would track its blood to the corpse.
A good shot it was. The arrow thudded into the buck's chest at an angle, puncturing the lung. The deer bucked and bolted away from Sigurd, who dropped out of the tree and crouched low, walking to the spot of impact. Sure enough, crimson droplets still warm led to where the deer was inevitably going to fall. All he had to do was follow it, and then ensure that no other predators were drawn to the blood as well.
Sigurd's bow was slung over his shoulder and his quiver clung tight to his hip. Both were positioned for optimal comfort and accessibility should he need them. But the walk was always uneventful, which brought a frown to his hair-covered lips. In the Fields, you were hunted as much as you were the hunter. The monsters in the Fields of Gauthrel were some of the most fearsome on Idalos, and Sigurd had faced them. Here, the woods seemed positively docile, which was both good and bad.
The Lothar sighed as he walked, intentionally quiet. He was going to set up in a tree, but he needed to make sure he didn't alert the wildlife around him to his presence, lest he wished to wait for breaks before they returned. His body, which was layered with thick mud, was bare except for a codpiece. Head to toe, mud caked his form, masking his natural musk and providing camouflage against the bark of the trees.
And so he kept his eyes out for twigs and branches that would snap under foot, and he sidestepped dried leaves on the ground. He had a favorite hunting spot, but it was a decent walk from his home, which was probably a good thing. The deer in the forest were large and plump, and the last thing he needed was for a curious doe to stumble into his vegetation storage. He'd be eaten out of home by his food. The thought brought a smile to his face.
Nearly half a break later, Sigurd arrived at his tree. Powerful arms lifted him into the lower branches, and practiced fingers plucked leaves from them. He pressed the leaves into the mud, layering it for more camouflage as he leaned back against the trunk. He kept his eyes open for any sign of the deer, and relaxed in his spot.
Hunting was just as much about patience as it was skill. You could track and hunt all day, but if you weren't patient, you'd catch nothing. It only took a break, which surprised Sigurd. The buck walked into the clearing in front of him, head bobbing as it nibbled grass. Sigurd smiled and admired the majesty of the animal before him. It had twelve spurs on its antlers, and was sizeable enough for Sigurd to eat plenty for a good long time. He slid the bow from its home and nocked an arrow, aiming at the front end of the deer. A perfect shot would bring it down immediately. A good shot would wound it fatally, and he would track its blood to the corpse.
A good shot it was. The arrow thudded into the buck's chest at an angle, puncturing the lung. The deer bucked and bolted away from Sigurd, who dropped out of the tree and crouched low, walking to the spot of impact. Sure enough, crimson droplets still warm led to where the deer was inevitably going to fall. All he had to do was follow it, and then ensure that no other predators were drawn to the blood as well.
