The Sunspire Another doctrine repugnant to civil society.
Ghost
"God is every bit as feral as that which he creates."
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Ooc — Talamasca
Master Warrior
Ecologist
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#1
All Welcome 
Set around July 26-28. Set around midday, somewhere between the Saints and the Sunspire. Rev has a bite wound on his neck from Macaria fyi.


Creating something out of nothing was not a skill Revui had ever required of himself, but he found that the mountain was a lonely place merely days after his arrival. He had chosen it for how impressive it looked from a distance. Having toured its slopes in earlier weeks and sought out strangers to contend with in that time, he thought it would be frequented by many beasts he could lure to his hold. This time as he explored the cliffs and ridges, he found very few scents. Little to no sign of life save for chattering squirrels and flighty little birds who would flock away at the first sign of his shadow.

He would not be deterred, though. Revui knew that there were wolves upon the range and he would merely have to hunt them down. He headed north as the natural paths allowed, forcing his way when they were too narrow for his broad shoulders or placing himself dangerously upon the sides of steep cliffs, utilizing all that he knew of mountaineering not to slide to his death. It was thrilling, despite the vacancy.

The beast slowed down and eventually paused his hiking when the scent of blood reached his nose; it was stale, and the further he investigated the more rancid the scent became. He had not eaten in some time so even the potential of rotten meat was a powerful lure.

The dead thing — a partially buried mule deer that may have misjudged the strength of the soil beneath its feet — had glassy dead eyes, broken forelimbs, and what looked to be a visceral heap tangled among stones and branches. Part of the nearby hillside had come away and crushed it, Revui presumed.

He did not think twice about it — food was food. He began to work at the deer's exposed shoulder with some gusto, working at the dry hide to get at the greying meat beneath.

The woods have always been filled with these soft doe-eyed things;
with hearts beating for the arrow, the bullet, the lance.

I have always been the huntsman.  ⤑