Witch's Marsh prorsus

Ico had embarked upon a trek up North to clear his head and gather his thoughts. Some abstract part of him hoped he'd rediscover the Broken Boulder, where all this had begun — but he knew it was too far away, besides which he'd inadvertently ended up travelling in quite the wrong direction. Speaking of inadvertent, the hungry fay soon began to realise he was on the trail of a small herd. But as this revelation hit him, he did not speed up for the stalk — he slowed. He was not a Ulysses. He couldn't take down so much as a fawn.

But what if...?

Slowly, Ico began to regain his pace, moving cautiously, following the scent until he saw some of the deer through the trees up ahead; in sight, but only just. But then he saw something else far off to the left. Something unfamiliar, silver, and — even from here — painfully handsome. A hunter type. A loner, probably. Ico was closer to and upwind from the herd, and he had the higher ground. Geographically speaking, he had an advantage over the silver other. But little Ico was no contender and he knew it; and so he slowed that pace once again, seeming almost to freeze as he watched the stranger.