A Ranger's Hunt

[PCSwift 1422]

20th of Malin's Welcome, 215

 

Spoiler

 

 

The day was dragging long and still Asbjorn had no food for dinner. The singular arrow he holds within his hand carries salt, from sweat long dried up. The bow within his left, is no better, having been ground down from his black, arcanic metal hand. Despite his aching legs, he still stays slightly crouched down, directly behind a brush, and within his sight a doe, big enough for to feed him for a few weeks should he ration it out properly. She stands within a clearing of the Southern forests, the golden evening light touching and warming the deer’s soft coat. His breathing is controlled, slowed, and soft as if this exact moment were rehearsed a thousand times, as he then nocks his arrow. The string is pulled, tension building within the sinew as his eyes trained upon the poor doe. At once, the arrow is loosed, finding its mark within her neck. 

 

The doe spasms as it suddenly feels intense pain, kicking and rearing until it falls over onto it’s side, as it tries to cling to life. She tries to take breath, after breath, after breatj. Until, she simply draws air no longer.

 

Asbjorn makes his way over to his quarry, to which he kneels in front of. He shuts his eyes, and signs the cross of Lorraine as he mumbles a prayer to God in thanks. He wastes no time, and begins to process the animal.

 

With the snap of his fingers, an iron skillet appears in the grass, then two soft, dry pieces of rope. A strike of flint later, and a fire is lit. Asbjorn begins to cook each piece of venison, and each time they finish they glow with a soft white light until they disappear from existence. 

 

The sun sets now, the clearing’s canopy now letting in a soft, white moonlit column of light. The temperature dropped, something Asbjorn hadn’t even noticed with his continued work cooking his venison. The fire dies down, as he places the last piece of meat into his skillet, as he takes notice of the moonlight from above. He notices the sky, and it’s stars, the bleak black and speckles of light contrasting with each other. It was so beautiful and was seldom left underappreciated in his mind. Then, his attention is dragged to the moon. How it hangs high and large, above the other stars, yet within the sea of stars it still looks so alone. An exhale is released, and a smile forms on his face, looking as if it didn’t belong there.

 

His attention is brought back to his skillet, with his venison. Just as soon as it came, his smile left, and his attention returned to what he was doing. His mind, however, still was hung upon the sky, and it’s wonder. A hand reaches to grab the skillet, and he jumps back with a mumble of pain. He looks down at his palm, as a red blister begins to form from where he had touched the skillet. With a wave of his hand, the fire disappears, leaving the skillet upon the grass. He opts to sit next to the skillet and gaze back up at the night sky, the moon specifically.

 

“I used to be the best Blade in the land, you know.” He speaks warmly, turning to his right. 

There was simply nobody there, to give him a response. He knew there was nobody there to respond, but, it felt like something you say, something you should share with ones close to you in moments like these. He looks back to the moon, silent.

 

He takes his piece of venison from his skillet, and with the snap of his fingers, there appears a plate, a silver fork, and a knife. He eats in silence, and by his lonesome.