The Hunt

[Gnar]

Over the plains and far, far away

The night was over, faint bands of light stretched across the horizon in dazzling strokes of red and orange hues.  In the cold, half-light of dawn, he looked at the road that ran for miles in front of him.  It went as far as the eye could see, north-to-south and only the grey outline of the hills in the distance giving any perspective.  He hefted the heavy pack on his back again, cursing for the hundredth time at the weight.  A black wolf ran alongside him in near the road, only the faintest rustle of the long grass giving any hint that the beast was there.   The silence of the lands was broken only by the rhythmic footfalls of his feet on the paving like a drum beat and the regular, rasping breath that accompanied his exertions.

A great bow carved out of gnarled, dark wood rested across his shoulders and a wolf mask covered his face, giving him an odd appearance in the gloom, almost like a great six legged beast running on hind legs.  But there were none around to see him.  The nocturnal creatures of these lands were skittering, scuttling and scrabbling back to their resting places, paying him no attention as he passed along the road.  He glanced over his shoulder briefly, looking back to the south.  The light was getting brighter now, and he could just make out the dull brown of the Tauren encampment in the middle-distance, a small plume of smoke billowing from the Inn he had left not twenty minutes before.

With another curse, he hefted the pack again and put on a burst of speed that most wouldn’t have thought possible given his aging and bulky frame.  He had places to be and many miles to go…

Root and Branch

The darkness closed around him, the humid conditions forcing him to take short breaths and his hands swatting at the incessant buzzing of insects around his head.  The bows of the trees seemed to draw downwards, closing him in and the roots grasped upwards from the soil as if trying to tangle his feet.  He cursed loudly, suddenly not bothered by anything being alerted to his presence.  He had experienced this many years before, when they had marched against the nature god in these same woods.  The forest had come alive against them, and hundreds of Orcs had been lost to the dark corners of the forest - never to be seen again.  These days, even the trees were wary of the axe wielding Orcs without their forest lord to protect them.  But any lone peon from the lumber camps was still very foolish to lose his way in this place.

He drew a small, rusty hatchet from his belt, hacking at the branches which blocked his path.  The road to the east, just visible through the thick undergrowth, would be a much quicker way of travelling.  But the trees were not as dangerous as the other inhabitants of these woods â€" the Night Elves and their swift cats.  He would not make it ten feet if he were caught alone by one of their patrols, so he had decided to risk getting entangled or lost to try to avoid them.  He was starting to regret that decision, especially when he tripped for the fifth time and his hatchet skittered off into the darkness.  The wolf barked happily, but he shot the animal a dark look causing it to hang its head.  Even his closest companion couldn’t get away with mocking him right now.

Thankfully, he was not far from the pass and the lands where the forest thinned.  There was not much detail on his map, the further north he travelled, especially along the west of the lands.  He had spoken with the Warsong scouts and they agreed that the mountain pass was a border between the thickest forests and the coast where the lands were more welcoming.  With a nod to himself, he grabbed at the hatchet and pulled himself up, pushing on through the undergrowth to make his way to the road.  The creaking protests of the branches seemed to drop away as he got closer to the open road, a refreshing breeze picking up and lifting his spirits.

He looked up and down the road in the darkness, trying to spot any sign of danger and sniffing for any scents on the wind.  Satisfied that he wasn’t about to walk into an ambush, he stepped out onto the road and began to move quickly north, crouching low and staying as close as he dared to the moonlight that shone onto the path.  The mountains ahead of him loomed upwards faster and faster, closing in tighter and tighter until, up ahead, he saw a narrow pass through the hills.  Even the air seemed to want to be out of the forest, a breeze pulling at his back and driving him forwards.  He thanked the elements quietly, and shot another look at the wolf which had tilted his head at his words â€" it knew all too well that the Orc only got superstitious when trouble was brewing.  His boots, newly wrapped in dark leather and fur, made no sound on the paving as he passed, only the faint rustle of the breeze marked any movement at all.  With great relief, he looked up at the changing trees, the taller evergreens reaching up to the stars and leaving the thick undergrowth behind him…

Strolls on the beach

The cave had a fading smell that he couldn’t identify - an odour of both feather and fur.  But whatever had made the smell had long since abandoned the dwelling and gone elsewhere, thankfully.  A long, curved skinning knife rested on his lap, the sharpening stone being guided quickly along the blade to produce razor sharp edges.  A rough map lay on the floor at his feet, various places marked with crude symbols and even cruder lettering.  He traced a stick over the map slowly, mentally going over his route in minute detail.  

Beside him, the wolf dozed quietly, occasionally opening its eyes and growling low at him to show impatience at the delay.  He slid the skinning knife back into his boots and checked the arrows in his quiver for the tenth time, making sure they were loose and easily accessible. He traced the stick across the map in the same rough loop again, nodding and closing his eyes to visualise the path.  With a grunt, he clambered to his feet and folded up the parchment map, sliding it into his belt.  Within moments, the wolf sprang up and began pacing the cave floor behind him, growling eagerly and brushing against his legs.  He patted the wolf heavily on its flank, and dropped a piece of raw meat from his pack on the floor, which the wolf ate eagerly.  Without a word, he stepped into the fading dusk light and picked up a brisk pace as he headed towards the distant sound of the sea.

He rolled his head from side to side, keeping his nostrils flared, his ears open and his eyes wide for any threats.  The wolf was a few yards ahead now, its ears standing straight up and its nose tracking along the ground sniffing for scents.  The grass was thinning as sandy patches appeared and rolling hills continued off into the distance.  With a grunt to the wolf, he picked up the pace again as the most dangerous part of the journey approached â€" along a beach which offered no cover or protection from prying eyes, with a harbour very close.

Crouching as low to the ground as he could, he loped across the sand, staying near to the blutreacle sponge so he could at least try and make a break back into the forest if he was spotted.  The dawn light was bright, but the knife ears were mostly nocturnal - although a few tended to venture out during the morning hours these days.  He hoped that the time of the day would work in his favour.  He was almost running on all fours now, being careful to avoid leaving noticeable tracks in the light sand.  The wolf sprinted along lightly beside him, its tongue hanging from its jaws as the game got more fun.

The sun-bleached skeleton of the giant turtle, many years old, was one of the markers on his route.  How the map makers had known that it would still be there, or how they got so far north he did not know.  But it was there, and that was his signal.  With well practised ease, he galloped up the blutreacle sponge and back through the tree line into the sparse woods.  Through the trees he caught fleeting glimpses of the tiled roofs of the harbour to his left, the crashing of the waves on the shore fading with each step.  Without breaking his stride, he bounded across the road and continued through the trees.  Relief filled him as he heard no shouts or horns which would signal him being spotted.

He began to slow his pace, the woods growing quieter and denser with every stride.  The birdsong had faded into the distance all of a sudden, and the waves could only be heard very faintly now.  He stopped suddenly, the wolf almost bounded into the back of him, but managed to swerve at the last minute and pull up at his side.  Ahead of him, a massive tree with thick foliage was separated from the rest.  On its bark, great claw marks had been raked.  His prey, the reason for such a long journey, was close.

Eyes in the Dark

He lifted his head, smelling the scents on the wind.  A multitude of aromas filled his nostrils â€" the salty twang of the sea, the rich aroma of rotting wood, the sweet odour of wet grass.  But stronger than those, he caught the sickly metallic scent of fresh blood in the air.  Realising he was too close, he stepped back very slowly and very carefully into the undergrowth.  He parted the edges of a shrub and crouched, pulling the leaves close around him.  Reaching down to the dirt, he pulled out a thick clump of soil and grass, rubbing it across his armour to try to disguise his scent.  The wolf backed off into the woods a little further behind him, lying low in the shadows next to a rocky outcrop.

The first real sign of their prey was a rustling of leaves in the large tree just ahead of them.  The thick leaves of the great oak disguised whatever was moving among the branches, but whatever it was, he guessed it was big and agile.  He slid further back, loosening the bow from his back and retrieving three arrows from his quiver.  He stabbed two into the ground just ahead of him, and readied the third in his bow, looking up into the branches.  There, in the darkness, two yellow eyes peered down at him for a moment, before they were gone.

The leaves rustled again, louder this time, and then went quiet.  A slight creak almost directly above him was the only warning he got before a blurry shadow sped down the trunk to his right.  â€œClever girl” he growled, diving backwards as the great cat sprinted from the tree to where he had knelt in a fraction of a second.  He landed on his back hard, knocking the wind out of him but he just managed to roll away to the side again, holding his bow close to his body as the cat leapt towards him again.
Almost as quick as the cat, his wolf was on its paws and racing towards the attacker, a bloodthirsty howl erupting from its jaws.  The two animals leapt at each with fierce growls, in a whirlwind of claws and teeth.  He rolled a little further and pulled himself up, still clutching the bow and in a swift movement, readying an arrow and drawing it back, aiming for the great cat as it battled with his loyal wolf.  The two animals, bloody but unbowed, circled each other slowly â€" gnashing of teeth and rumbling growls punctuating the deadly dance.

He pulled the arrow back to its full length and let out a single, low whistle.  The wolf growled in acknowledgement and backed slowly away from the cat in a well practiced manner, shrinking low to avoid his arrow.  The cat looked at the wolf for a moment, and then turned to face him, tilting its head as it examined the situation.  Strangely, the cat seemed to realise what was about to happen and that its end was imminent, bowing its head to show the nape of its neck.  He peered at the animal for a moment, understanding the intelligence of these cats that the knife ears valued so highly, before he loosed the arrow.  Whistling through the air, the arrow struck home and the cat slumped to the dirt without another breath.  The wolf circled in and sniffed the cat before barking solemnly, a signal that the animal was no more.

Both disappointed and relieved, he walked towards the corpse slowly â€" still half expecting the animal to leap into action and fight anew.  Reaching the cat, he saw that the once black and brown fur was mottled with silver grey and white, and its teeth were many seasons long.  This was obviously a very old cat, and had made quite a reputation for itself in these woods, judging by the numerous scars that had healed across its body.  He gently laid a hand on the cats head, feeling the warmth leave the body.  Dipping two fingers of his right hand in the blood pooling at the neck, he drew the fingers under his eyes, marking his cheeks with the blood of the fallen in a mark of respect.

He drew the skinning knife and set to work, determined not to waste the honourable sacrifice of the cat.  Even though he had been searching for the most worthy prey to fulfil his tutor’s request, he knew it was the hunt that marked him for what he was, not the kill.  It was the journey and not the result that was important â€" but most of the headstrong, young Orcs would not recognise that fact.  

He would have to find a more spirited prey.  Though he had hunted, tracked and fought for many decades now, only some tangible proof and a good story would show his worth it seemed.  â€œGronn-damned whelps…” he muttered, the skinning knife tearing through the hide and flesh easily. His faithful wolf barked in agreement and bounded around the corpse happily, waiting for scraps that were bound to result.  He smirked at his companion, urging patience.  They would both feast well, that night…

(( Product of a ridiculously hot and boring day at work.  Second part to come, when I find the time! ))