The late evening air was choked with humidity, feeling more like the middle of summer than the tail-end of spring, and the bugs seemed to be in on it. They moved like clouds of livid particulate across the narrow deer paths, or careened in to the starlight as if they missed being part of the endless black of the heavens. It was a quiet night for the most part. A small breeze ruffled the towering tips of the trees; it grew in strength, like the forest was sucking in a deep breath, causing some of the younger trees to quake where they stood, wheezing as their branches shivered and snapped.
The calm returned, mostly. There was a repetitive sound that followed the wind, like steps — too fluid to be from a large beast, too careful to be a predator. The spry young deer had been startled by the crashing of branches through the undergrowth and been roused from its sleep, bolting in to the dark and letting its own inexperience and fright overpower all reason. Behind it crept a boulder of a man who used the shifting wind to his advantage; the wolf prowled by a minute or so after the deer had launched deeper through the wood, but was not bothered. Soon the deer would tire — if not that, then the creature would make a mistake, and Tulimaq would be there to take advantage.
Tulimaq had not changed since his previous expedition through these Wilds. He was still a focused survivalist, still trying to prove himself and earn a proper name among the people of Tartok, yet doubt never entered his mind that he would one day achieve what he desired. As he hiked along one trail or another he was oblivious to his place in the world — all that mattered was the hunt, but... Overhead, had he the ability to see through the dense woodland that flourished around him, he'd see the fierce obstacle that had temporarily defeated him: Boartusk Heights.
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