Tracks of Trials

[CptShoelace 137]

Spoiler

OOC: First time in a long time posting on the forums as far as RP goes but voila hope you enjoy the short story!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5VfpY2grm0

The ranger apprentice had walked the road twice before deciding to take the hunt.

The first time, he listened. The second, he looked.

By the third, he understood.

Something was wrong.

The forest should have been alive with sound; birds in the canopy, small animals in the brush, but there was nothing. No movement. No noise. Just stillness. A cart sat abandoned further down the road, one wheel broken, its draw-horse dragged off into the trees and left half-eaten.

Whatever lived here wasn’t afraid of people.

That was enough.

He stepped off the road and into the treeline, pulling his cloak tighter around him as he went. This wasn’t about pride or proving anything. If the road wasn’t safe, more would fall victim.

 

---

 

He found the tracks near a stretch of soft ground by the bank of the creek.

They were big, too big. Deep enough to press hard into the soil, the weight carried forward like something built to lunge. Claws dug into the earth ahead of each step, long and visible.

The ranger apprentice crouched beside the print, careful not to disturb it. Still fresh. The edges hadn’t crumbled yet.

He didn’t follow it directly. Instead, he moved alongside the trail, stepping on roots and stone where he could. The signs were easy enough to read, broken branches, bark scraped away, the kind of damage only something large and careless would leave behind.

Then he found the stag…

It had been torn open, not cleanly killed. Meat ripped away in uneven strips, half of it left behind.

The ranger apprentice frowned slightly.

“Not hungry,” he muttered. “Just killing.”

That made it worse.

 

---

 

He took a moment to prepare before going further.

His bowstring was tight. He checked each arrow by hand, making sure nothing was loose or bent. His throwing knives came out next, just long enough to test each edge before he slid it back.

From his pouch, he took a bit of ash and rubbed it into his hands, then across his neck and jaw. It dulled his scent, helped him blend in. Not perfect, but better than nothing.

He tested the wind, feeling it against his face.

Good.

He adjusted his path, keeping it in his favor.

 

---

 

By the time the light began to fade, the ranger apprentice knew better than to keep moving.

Hunting in the dark against something like this was a good way to die.

He found a spot just off a low ridge, where the ground dipped slightly and the trees grew thick enough to break his outline. Not on the trail, never on the trail, but close enough that he wouldn’t lose it come morning.

He didn’t build a fire.

Instead, he cleared a small patch of ground down to the soil, brushing away leaves and loose debris so nothing would crack beneath him. His bedroll stayed tight and minimal, tucked against the base of a tree where his back would be covered. One side protected, the other open to watch.

From his pouch, he scattered a thin line of ash and crushed leaves around the camp’s edge. Not enough to be seen, just enough that anything passing through might disturb it. A simple warning.

He checked the wind again before settling in, making sure his scent would carry away from the beast’s trail, not toward it.

Even then, he didn’t sleep fully.

One hand rested near his knife, the other near his bow. Every sound, every shift of branch or brush, pulled him halfway awake. It was a habit more than a choice.

The forest stayed quiet.

 

---

 

Tracking like this wasn’t about speed.

It was about patience.

He followed the signs for hours, moving slowly, stopping often. Sometimes to listen. Sometimes because the forest felt… off.

At one point, he realized he hadn’t heard anything for several minutes.

No birds. No insects.

That was when he knew he was close.

 

---

 

The clearing ahead looked like something had tried to tear it apart.

Trees were snapped or bent, the ground churned into mud. Another carcass lay in the center, already starting to rot.

The ranger apprentice didn’t walk in.

Instead, he circled around, checking the wind again before climbing an old oak at the edge. From there, he had a clear view of the clearing without exposing himself.

He settled onto a branch, nocked an arrow, and waited.

Time dragged on. The light started to fade.

Then the wind shifted.

He tensed.

 

---

 

The beast stepped into the clearing slowly, like it had all the time in the world.

At first, it was just a shape moving between the trees. Then it came into view, larger than any wolf he’d ever seen, shoulders high, body thick with muscle. Its fur was dark and rough, its body marked with old scars.

This wasn’t its first fight.

The ranger apprentice didn’t rush the shot.

He watched it move. Waited for the right angle.

Then he drew and released.

The arrow struck deep into its side.

The beast let out a low, angry roar and turned instantly toward him.

Too fast.

It charged the tree, claws digging into the bark as it tried to climb. The ranger apprentice dropped before it could reach him, hitting the ground and rolling to his feet with another arrow ready.

He fired again. Another hit, but it wasn’t enough.

The beast kept coming.

There was no time for a third shot.

He moved to the side, using a fallen log to break its path. The creature smashed through it like it was nothing, splintering wood as it came.

So he drew his knife.

When it lunged, he didn’t run.

He stepped in.

Close enough to feel its breath, to hear the snap of its jaws just past his shoulder. He drove the blade up under its jaw, where the fur thinned, pushing hard.

The beast fought back, thrashing, its weight slamming him into the ground.

He didn’t let go.

He pushed deeper until the fight finally left it.

 

---

 

For a moment, he just lay there, catching his breath.

Then he carefully pushed the body off and stood.

The clearing was quiet again.

 

---

 

He got to work.

First the arrows pulled free and cleaned, plucking heads from broken shafts. Then the skinning.

He worked slowly, carefully. A good pelt was easy to ruin if you rushed it. The blade slid under the hide as he separated it from the muscle beneath, taking his time to keep it intact.

It wasn’t clean work, but it was necessary.

When the hide was free, he set it aside and took what else he could, teeth, claws, anything useful.

The rest he left.

 

---

 

By the time he made it back to the road, it was dark.

The ranger apprentice carried the pelt over his shoulder, its weight steady and real.

The road was quiet again, but this time, it felt right.

Safe.

He didn’t stop to admire it.

Didn’t need to.

There would always be another stretch of road. Another problem waiting.

And when there was, he’d be there, same as always.

Not for glory. Not for thanks.

Just because it needed to be done.