02-21-2012, 09:00 AM
Karl thumbed the edge of the taut sinew and it buzzed almost silently in the grip of the tall wooden longbow. The pad of his boot rolled over leaves and weaved between branches as he slid along the dim border of the forest. The creak of the old wooden wheels had gathered his attention and soon as he had expected a tradesman appeared upon the winding, ancient road. A broken donkey with a worn bit drug behind it a weathered cart with a tired driver sat atop it as he lazily tapped a crop against its back. The dim light of the dusk cast an amber glow to his face and long shadows made every wrinkle seem deeper.
The string drew back, the arrow already set atop it. He took a moment to aim, both eyes locked firmly upon his target. He slowly let his breath from his lungs and allowed his shoulders to relax, calm and firm and still. He blinked once and released the arrow.
The man gasped as the arrow entered his flank, instantly releasing his reigns and tumbling from the cart, wheezing. Karl watched from the woodline as the man grasped at the arrow, curious to know if he would break it or leave it in. Eventually he must have decided to leave it in because he groggily brought himself to his feet, glanced in either direction and plod into the green, opposite the direction of the assailant.
The fostri had known this might happen if his shot did not strike the heart. He watched the road a moment before slowly inching out and dancing on almost-silent feet over the soft dirt and grass. He followed the dabs of blood, the downturned twigs, footprints over the leaves. The man had only one lung to breathe with, blood pooling inside of his chest. It was only a quarter mile.
Karl gathered the copper awl from his pocket and poked him just below the chin, where his father had shown him, to be certain the man was done in his suffering. He wrapped a braided leather rope about his feet to draw him up but he was uncertain if they were far enough from the road. He left the rope upon him and returned to the road, drawing the donkey off of it and into the woods far enough to be out of view, tying it to a tree. He dragged the man down over a hill, beside a creek and hung him from a branch there, beginning to do the work he had done many times before with his landi, his countrymen.
The man had a large black pot on the cart, and Karl took both a strange pride and a clenching fear in his chest as he took up the cold-iron in his hands and to the river. He boiled the bones into a broth for the stew he would make, began to cure most of the meat, boiling the scraps in the brine. He found a few onions and a bush of mint, they too found themselves in the pot.
The fire was warm to him, very different than the cold black nights he had spent under moss-cover, wrapped on either side by his clansmen. The world of menskr was different, he decided, but he was yet unsure of how great the difference was. He did not like to sit in the open with fire, here on the surface where he might be so easily spotted. The trail of blood he had so lazily left felt unclean and childish. Though, these were the things that made men like men, and his father had told him that he was to live and speak as a child upon the bosom of the forgiving woods.
Night fell and Karl could not quell the temptation to kill his fire and heat himself by still-too-bright embers of the coal. His stew was hearty and rich, though he wished that the pot had not been so large. His belly felt too full, though he knew that he would only have this one hunt to live upon for the coming weeks; that he should be thankful to be too full for soon he would be too empty.
After his meal he buried the parts which were better not found, cleaned his hands in the creek and collected his things. He travelled back up to the donkey and laid out his bed. He grinned that he could keep himself warm under wool and moss as he fell into sleep.
The string drew back, the arrow already set atop it. He took a moment to aim, both eyes locked firmly upon his target. He slowly let his breath from his lungs and allowed his shoulders to relax, calm and firm and still. He blinked once and released the arrow.
The man gasped as the arrow entered his flank, instantly releasing his reigns and tumbling from the cart, wheezing. Karl watched from the woodline as the man grasped at the arrow, curious to know if he would break it or leave it in. Eventually he must have decided to leave it in because he groggily brought himself to his feet, glanced in either direction and plod into the green, opposite the direction of the assailant.
The fostri had known this might happen if his shot did not strike the heart. He watched the road a moment before slowly inching out and dancing on almost-silent feet over the soft dirt and grass. He followed the dabs of blood, the downturned twigs, footprints over the leaves. The man had only one lung to breathe with, blood pooling inside of his chest. It was only a quarter mile.
Karl gathered the copper awl from his pocket and poked him just below the chin, where his father had shown him, to be certain the man was done in his suffering. He wrapped a braided leather rope about his feet to draw him up but he was uncertain if they were far enough from the road. He left the rope upon him and returned to the road, drawing the donkey off of it and into the woods far enough to be out of view, tying it to a tree. He dragged the man down over a hill, beside a creek and hung him from a branch there, beginning to do the work he had done many times before with his landi, his countrymen.
The man had a large black pot on the cart, and Karl took both a strange pride and a clenching fear in his chest as he took up the cold-iron in his hands and to the river. He boiled the bones into a broth for the stew he would make, began to cure most of the meat, boiling the scraps in the brine. He found a few onions and a bush of mint, they too found themselves in the pot.
The fire was warm to him, very different than the cold black nights he had spent under moss-cover, wrapped on either side by his clansmen. The world of menskr was different, he decided, but he was yet unsure of how great the difference was. He did not like to sit in the open with fire, here on the surface where he might be so easily spotted. The trail of blood he had so lazily left felt unclean and childish. Though, these were the things that made men like men, and his father had told him that he was to live and speak as a child upon the bosom of the forgiving woods.
Night fell and Karl could not quell the temptation to kill his fire and heat himself by still-too-bright embers of the coal. His stew was hearty and rich, though he wished that the pot had not been so large. His belly felt too full, though he knew that he would only have this one hunt to live upon for the coming weeks; that he should be thankful to be too full for soon he would be too empty.
After his meal he buried the parts which were better not found, cleaned his hands in the creek and collected his things. He travelled back up to the donkey and laid out his bed. He grinned that he could keep himself warm under wool and moss as he fell into sleep.