maybe a hunter thread? ;D
The morning was the coldest that Frostrar could ever remember it being thus far this winter, the air was frigid and unforgiving, so cold that it stung at his leathery, black nose, his breath rising from slightly parted jaws in furls of white steam — warm where it writhed around his ruined muzzle before it dissipated. He was not cold, not so long as he kept moving. He could not allow the chill to creep through the thick, coarse winter coat he had grown for the purpose of keeping him warm during the winter months. The Eldingar Valley gotten colder than this, especially at night when it'd been known to dip into the negatives until the wolves of Freyja's Moor — a lush greenery in the spring and summer months twisted into an icy fortress during the winter months — had been forced to share a collective den made in the inside of a cave, their thirteen curled bodies pressed together for the sake of spreading and sharing body heat.
The tall and thick evergreens kept the biting wind down and at bay, shielding Frostrar from the very worse of it. He'd been prowling on one of the forests' many herds of deer. Too well the Berserker understood that he would not be able to take down a deer by himself — at least not one of outstanding health or an adult. A fawn he could manage ...if he could herd it away from it's mother and the herd, or one of their sickly or elderly. Preferably an elder that was sickly, at that. He was an astute hunter, of course, he had to have been to have survived this long upon his own. It was instinct to seek out the weak as his targets (likely why he had that complex when it came to wolves, as well). Nerian had been no hunter, and to him, his brothers had been as docile and fragile as their priestess mother. He was not a nurturer by nature, he enforced and if they could not keep up then they were left for dead. Of course, this was always an unclear boundary line when it came to his mother and brothers. He had taken it upon himself to protect and lead them, this meant standing up for them and carrying their weight, at times. He argued that they were not dead weight and that if did not stand up for them then no one would.
Hypocritical was what he was, admittedly. His rule didn't count for family members — only everyone else. Nevertheless, it didn't much matter now. Sif had agreed to watch over them and he had struck out on his own, selfish as it was. The familiar click of their joints, the soft patter of hooves against snow and cushioning moss caused both ears — scarred and unblemished — to rise to attention atop his skull as he sulked down low, creeping forth, pushing slowly through the ferns though not so far as to dismiss their camouflage. There was two he saw, a doe, heavily pregnant lain upon the soft mosses of the forest floor, her sides heaving with each heavy pant and the occasional bleat, and a stag standing guard though he grazed lazily at the saplings beneath the snow and pines. For a moment Frostrar gave a pause, pupils narrowing within their pools of red irises as he contemplated the scene before him, seconds before it began to make sense: the doe was giving birth.
Nearly perfect, except for the stag lingering close by her. Frostrar slowly crept back out of the ferns to the clearing on the other side of the one the deer were in and back tracked so that he would not draw attention to himself as he considered his plan.
The tall and thick evergreens kept the biting wind down and at bay, shielding Frostrar from the very worse of it. He'd been prowling on one of the forests' many herds of deer. Too well the Berserker understood that he would not be able to take down a deer by himself — at least not one of outstanding health or an adult. A fawn he could manage ...if he could herd it away from it's mother and the herd, or one of their sickly or elderly. Preferably an elder that was sickly, at that. He was an astute hunter, of course, he had to have been to have survived this long upon his own. It was instinct to seek out the weak as his targets (likely why he had that complex when it came to wolves, as well). Nerian had been no hunter, and to him, his brothers had been as docile and fragile as their priestess mother. He was not a nurturer by nature, he enforced and if they could not keep up then they were left for dead. Of course, this was always an unclear boundary line when it came to his mother and brothers. He had taken it upon himself to protect and lead them, this meant standing up for them and carrying their weight, at times. He argued that they were not dead weight and that if did not stand up for them then no one would.
Hypocritical was what he was, admittedly. His rule didn't count for family members — only everyone else. Nevertheless, it didn't much matter now. Sif had agreed to watch over them and he had struck out on his own, selfish as it was. The familiar click of their joints, the soft patter of hooves against snow and cushioning moss caused both ears — scarred and unblemished — to rise to attention atop his skull as he sulked down low, creeping forth, pushing slowly through the ferns though not so far as to dismiss their camouflage. There was two he saw, a doe, heavily pregnant lain upon the soft mosses of the forest floor, her sides heaving with each heavy pant and the occasional bleat, and a stag standing guard though he grazed lazily at the saplings beneath the snow and pines. For a moment Frostrar gave a pause, pupils narrowing within their pools of red irises as he contemplated the scene before him, seconds before it began to make sense: the doe was giving birth.
Nearly perfect, except for the stag lingering close by her. Frostrar slowly crept back out of the ferns to the clearing on the other side of the one the deer were in and back tracked so that he would not draw attention to himself as he considered his plan.
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