16-12-2003, 20:59
Harlon, Gern and Ranalf edged their way slowly, silently through the undergrowth, hands gripping their bows tightly, their every sense intently focused on their prey.
In the small part of his mind not fully ocupied by the hunt, Gern felt a glow of self-satisfaction - for this trip had, of course, been his idea. The others had laughed at first when he suggested trekking so far afield, beyond the very borders of Wyrmberg and into the unclaimed wasteland among the high mountains, for few ever ventured there. But when he countered that where few ventured, few hunted - well, that gave them pause. And it was true that the prospect of better hunting was more than welcome.
For several years now, the hunting in the forest near the village had been getting worse and worse. Some spoke darkly of over-hunting, but Gern knew thiese alegations were unjust. He had been a hunter all his life, as had his family, and all his ancestors for as many generations as his Uncle Theomer (who made a hobby of researching their family tree) could trace, and the last thing you did in such a family was over-hunt. As a local saying would have it: "Hunt badly, and you go hungry. Hunt well, and you eat well. But hunt too well, and one day, your children will go hungry."
In the village's one tavern, where the three friends spent what little free time they had, the old men of the village spoke of other, stranger reasons. In hushed voices, they spoke of sorcery and enchantment, speculating that the game had not been driven away by the huntsmen,
but rather had somehow been drawn elsewhere. But the companions payed no heed to such rumors, knowing that a man's mind ran oft to such fancies as their lives wore on. Indeed, when they overheard such a conversation they often speculated aloud - half joking, half thoughtful - what fairytales they would come up with in their time.
At this the old men would glare over at them and then, lowering their voices further, would begin discussing all the faults of the current generation, and how different it had all been in their day. Then the younger men would laugh, and their conversation would move onto other matters.
(In time to come, Gern would be forced to conceed that perhapse the old men weren't as senile as he had thought. But then, he could hardly be expected to know thatthen, could he?)
Gern had been proved right when, coming over a rise, they had seen the valey in which they now stalked their prey. Set as it was amongst the grey mountainside, the forested valley had seemed as a green jewel set into a great steel sword-hilt. In fact, had they been a little more imaginative they might have wondered at how green and fertile the forest was, so high up in the mountains - but, being of a more down-to-earth type and unacustomed to such musings, they instead stood and stared, captivated by it's beauty.
Then, remembering why they were there, they slung their quivers back over their shoulders and continued down into the woods.
Now the hunters fanned out to come at the quarry from three different angles, making escape all but impossible. Harlon (a distant cousin of his, according to Uncle Theomer) took the left, and Ranalf (a relative newcomer to the village - his family had only lived there three generations, and no-one let them forget it) the right, with Gern keeping to the same course.
The quarry - a massive Stag, in the prime of life - would provide food for their families for weeks to come, while its skin could be used for anything from soft buckskin boots for their younger children, to new quivers for their arrows. The antlers were a real prize - they were a magnificent set, and if carved well would make trinkets for their respective wives and daughters, with maybe enough left to trade a few items for other goods.
So it was hardly surprising that they were so intently focused on bringing the hunt to a quick, efficient close that not one of them noticed they were no longer alone in the forest. So one can hardly blame Ranalf if he let out a cry of surprise when, just as he began to draw back his bowstring and take aim, an arrow slashed through the air in front of his face, a hair's breadth from his nose.
His cry startled their quarry, sending the great Stag darting off into the safety of the undergrowth. But the hunters no longer payed it any attention - suddenly, they had more pressing matters on their minds.
((OOC: This is setting the scene for a RP of the first encounter between my nation and another, and so for the moment is Invite-Only - although there may be opportunities for oters to get involved later. However, feel free to post OOC comments))
In the small part of his mind not fully ocupied by the hunt, Gern felt a glow of self-satisfaction - for this trip had, of course, been his idea. The others had laughed at first when he suggested trekking so far afield, beyond the very borders of Wyrmberg and into the unclaimed wasteland among the high mountains, for few ever ventured there. But when he countered that where few ventured, few hunted - well, that gave them pause. And it was true that the prospect of better hunting was more than welcome.
For several years now, the hunting in the forest near the village had been getting worse and worse. Some spoke darkly of over-hunting, but Gern knew thiese alegations were unjust. He had been a hunter all his life, as had his family, and all his ancestors for as many generations as his Uncle Theomer (who made a hobby of researching their family tree) could trace, and the last thing you did in such a family was over-hunt. As a local saying would have it: "Hunt badly, and you go hungry. Hunt well, and you eat well. But hunt too well, and one day, your children will go hungry."
In the village's one tavern, where the three friends spent what little free time they had, the old men of the village spoke of other, stranger reasons. In hushed voices, they spoke of sorcery and enchantment, speculating that the game had not been driven away by the huntsmen,
but rather had somehow been drawn elsewhere. But the companions payed no heed to such rumors, knowing that a man's mind ran oft to such fancies as their lives wore on. Indeed, when they overheard such a conversation they often speculated aloud - half joking, half thoughtful - what fairytales they would come up with in their time.
At this the old men would glare over at them and then, lowering their voices further, would begin discussing all the faults of the current generation, and how different it had all been in their day. Then the younger men would laugh, and their conversation would move onto other matters.
(In time to come, Gern would be forced to conceed that perhapse the old men weren't as senile as he had thought. But then, he could hardly be expected to know thatthen, could he?)
Gern had been proved right when, coming over a rise, they had seen the valey in which they now stalked their prey. Set as it was amongst the grey mountainside, the forested valley had seemed as a green jewel set into a great steel sword-hilt. In fact, had they been a little more imaginative they might have wondered at how green and fertile the forest was, so high up in the mountains - but, being of a more down-to-earth type and unacustomed to such musings, they instead stood and stared, captivated by it's beauty.
Then, remembering why they were there, they slung their quivers back over their shoulders and continued down into the woods.
Now the hunters fanned out to come at the quarry from three different angles, making escape all but impossible. Harlon (a distant cousin of his, according to Uncle Theomer) took the left, and Ranalf (a relative newcomer to the village - his family had only lived there three generations, and no-one let them forget it) the right, with Gern keeping to the same course.
The quarry - a massive Stag, in the prime of life - would provide food for their families for weeks to come, while its skin could be used for anything from soft buckskin boots for their younger children, to new quivers for their arrows. The antlers were a real prize - they were a magnificent set, and if carved well would make trinkets for their respective wives and daughters, with maybe enough left to trade a few items for other goods.
So it was hardly surprising that they were so intently focused on bringing the hunt to a quick, efficient close that not one of them noticed they were no longer alone in the forest. So one can hardly blame Ranalf if he let out a cry of surprise when, just as he began to draw back his bowstring and take aim, an arrow slashed through the air in front of his face, a hair's breadth from his nose.
His cry startled their quarry, sending the great Stag darting off into the safety of the undergrowth. But the hunters no longer payed it any attention - suddenly, they had more pressing matters on their minds.
((OOC: This is setting the scene for a RP of the first encounter between my nation and another, and so for the moment is Invite-Only - although there may be opportunities for oters to get involved later. However, feel free to post OOC comments))