The Heartwood Slowly tears you apart

Unseated in the chaos of the struggling buck, Solharr eyed Kigipigak, and the northman only grunted in response to his commentary. The buck was healthy before their encounter; if anything he would have been a prime candidate when the rut came, and perhaps he had sired something worthwhile of the area's females before this.

Why Kigipigak thought of the prey's family at all, let alone while trying to dispatch him, made little sense to the man; he tried to put aside the musings and focus as the buck cleaved the air with that thorny mantle, and then lunged for yet another barrage of attacks.

He saw no reason to speak while they worked. It was much like the bison hunts upon the plains which he had once led; there was a time and a place for such things, and now was not one of them.

If the wolves had more to their number it would have been a more even fight. As it stood now—even with the two strong and capable men working in tandem—their capacity for violence would indeed be tested. Their endurance, their strength, all would come in to question against this creature as it struggled and bled.

Kigipigak managed many strikes, tearing in to the animal's hide while narrowly avoiding the thrashing and kicking of the animal as things became more desperate. The buck began to waver, to favor one side over another, and spun with a staggered step, wheeling around to keep its deeper wounds away. Red streaks slowly came to dominate the animal's hide—and again, Kigipigak could not help but think of times before, when a woman might take that hide and make something of it.

He had no woman for such work; there was no need for Kigipigak to be cautious about such things now. With a final lunge he sought to grab for the buck's face or neck, and while he would miss—there would be an opening to Solharr if the man should be keen enough to take it.