“It’s time to set off!”

You hear the voice of Eomer as he begins to load three boars into the wagon. “Someone give me a hand with these god-damned pigs and one of you wake up Bruce,” he barks. “It’s time to head back to town and if I miss my baby’s delivery — there will be hell to pay, that goes for me and the rest of you,” he jokingly says.

You immediately rush to help Eomer. The boars weigh around 200 pounds, which is around your own weight. Your current companions might be shocked to learn that the boy who supposedly has elf blood weighs almost twice as much as they do.

You realize from earlier that you are no ordinary human. Your musculature is stronger and even your skeletal structure is profoundly different.

Carrying a boar takes very little effort on your part, a feeling that is probably shared by the older Trent. He carries a boar with the same ease as you do and you perceive internal fluctuations of power that seem similar — albeit more complex and intricate — to that of the runed bear. He nods at you as he finishes loading the last boar.

A loud yawn signals the awakening of Bruce. He gets out of his tent and looks around — finally seeing you as you finish helping out with the wagon.

“So he did appear,” Bruce says to Eomer. He looks to be the same age as you, with a similar build.

“A little heavy for a scout,” you think — which is kind of funny, considering you were the one thinking it.

“I’m Bruce,” he introduces himself, offering a hand in greetings. “We saw your fire a few days ago. Eomer was expecting and hoping you would come.”

“Caleb,” you answer while shaking his hand. “Cal for short.”

You sense a burst of power as you shake his hand. This Bruce was clearly more powerful than Dune, though it appears he has no knowledge of it or he is hiding it well.

“A short lunch and we’re off to town,” bellows Eomer.

The hunters quickly prepare a fire, with Dune preparing a stew. You offer a slab of smoked bear meat as a sign of camaraderie and they graciously accept.

The food is gone within a few minutes. The meal wasn’t exceptional — but the hunter’s apparently enjoyed it. Meals are not one of the things you seem to relish or enjoy.

As Thomas is loading the now-empty pot into the wagon, Bruce approaches you.

“Can you fight?” he asks directly. “The only way to seriously know a person’s mettle is with a fight or two,” he says with a mischievous grin.

Eomer seems about ready to put a stop to the situation but the older Trent stops him.

“Let them fight a round or two,” he says. “It will give us an understanding of the boy’s skill. We’ll need to know sooner or later — especially if he is to be one of us.” He looks to you solemnly. “That is, if he is willing.”

“I don’t mind,” you reply. “A spar will do me good.”

“Thomas the staves!” commands Trent.

Thomas pulls two quarterstaves from the wagon, throwing one each to you and Bruce.

“Tough luck Bruce,” he snickers. “This one brought down a runed bear— all on his own.”

Disbelief flashes on Bruce’s face as he realized the source of the smoked meat. The doubt lasts for but a moment, the quarterstaff in his hands seemingly giving him confidence.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

Before you can even respond, he unleashes a sweeping strike to your legs.

You take a quick step back to avoid the blow and swing with an overhead strike to test your opponent.

He manages to parry, while immediately countering with a thrust directed to your head.

You easily avoid the thrust with a sidestep and a turn of your head. You swing your staff to attack his ribs but he manages to evade by stepping back as you did his first strike.

He continues swinging.

You parry and evade trying to find a pattern and finding none. Bruce is certainly adept in sparring and his moves are intuitive and not the usual practiced strikes. The exchange lasts for a minute — then two. Finally, a break in the fight separates the two of you.

The other hunters seem to be quite impressed at the display of martial prowess. You see both of the veterans with clear smiles on their faces and you see an intuitive look in Dune’s eyes. You wonder if he also sees the fluctuations of internal power within your opponent’s body.

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“Impressive,” says Bruce — clearly a little winded. He changes his stance, holding the quarterstaff as if were a spear. “But that was just the warm-up!”

This time he attacks with more fervor. You see the fluctuations of magic intensify, but glancing at the other hunters — they don’t seem to notice the change. Bruce’s attacks are now more focused on thrusts than strikes, similar to how a spearman would fight and clearly more dangerous — even in a friendly spar.

You evade when you can and parry when you can’t. His strikes may seem like a blur to the other hunters — but you can see each one of them clearly, noting every possible vector of attack and possible direction change.

You can easily overwhelm your opponent but it would probably cause massive damage — definitely not an option in a friendly spar. So you put on a show, feigning difficulty fighting a simple opponent.

The friendly match continues for another two minutes with each of you trading a few hits. You subconsciously disregard a few hits, knowing they’ll do no damage whatsoever. You don’t mind getting hit, and a normal human — even one enhanced by magic — with just a wooden stick is no threat to you. He couldn’t hurt you even if you let him.

As thoughts of finding ways to end the drawn-out match enter your mind, you sense a spike in energy fluctuations as Bruce goes for a spear-thrust to your neck. He may be subconsciously using magic — what more if he had proper training?

You casually parry but surprisingly — your staff breaks.

The blow that would have landed stops a few inches from your neck, a clear sign of Bruce’s skill and fine control.

You have more than enough time to evade, but you see the chance to end the already drawn-out and quite tedious fight. If only Bruce knew how many times you saw an opportunity to land a fatal blow — he would have balked at the disparity in skill and ability.

Although a strike to the neck from a wooden staff would hardly cause you any damage, you acknowledge Bruce’s win. At least this way the fight would stop, you retain your cover, and Bruce gets to keep his reputation.

The younger hunters cheer his win, although the two veterans are less boisterous.

Bruce is evidenty elated with the win and you can’t help but admire his jubilance. He raises his arms in victory — basking in the admiration of his fellow hunters and knowing it was a hard-fought battle.

Eomer approaches you asking if you are fine.

“The boy is okay,” snaps Trent. “He stood toe-to-toe with Bruce for more than 5 minutes and lost only because his weapon broke,” he says to Eomer. “Look at the boy — barely a drop of sweat as the victor is drenched and gasping for air.”

“You let me win?” asks Bruce with a hint of outrage. He obviously wanted a clean fight, and the thought of someone superior letting him win was a bigger insult than losing a match.

“No,” you reassure him. “Everyone saw it. You deserved the win.” You smile at the other hunters to show you accepted the result wholeheartedly. “I’m not that good at sparring and losing a weapon is a normal part of any battle. Believe me — I know.”

The other hunters snicker, remembering your tale of how you lost your spear to a bear and your knife to a wolf. Bruce is the only one not getting the point.

He looks at you with new-found respect. “You fought well yourself,” he says with conviction. “Maybe if you put more effort into sparring you could best me in just a few months’ time,” he says jokingly — trying to somewhat encourage you.

“Maybe,” you reply, “but I just don’t have enough time for sparring — I’m just a simple hunter.”

The wagon soon gets rolling after your spar. On the next stop, it was Thomas’s turn to challenge you to a test of skill. This time with bows.

Of course, it wouldn’t be the usual sparring — although this was suggested by Bruce. The two of you would take turns firing at a target and the closest one to the center wins.

This was not a contest you would hold back on — especially if you wanted to prove your background and your worth as a hunter. You guess from their murmurings that they are wondering if elf blood affects one’s archery skills. Well then, no holding back.

Bruce prepares the targets and Dune provides you with a bow similar to the one Thomas is using. You don’t get to choose your arrows, but they seem to be passable — considering this was a hunting party.

The first target was at 50 feet, close enough to hit the bulls-eye for the both of you.

Bruce grumbled at having to move the target so he moved it to thrice the distance at 50 yards.

Thomas turns to you and smiles. “Just this time, let’s try to shoot Bruce,” he says with feigned seriousness. “Try to shoot as close to him without actually hitting him.”

He draws and shoots — at Bruce. You didn’t think he would actually go through with it, but he really did.

The arrow lands near the feet of the relaxing hunter, immediately startling him.

“What the hell!” he blurts out. “Not this again you bastard! Don’t make me come there!”

“Misfire! Sorry!” shouts Thomas with a snicker.

“Just get on with it so we can get done with this archery nonsense,” Bruce replies.

Thomas looks at you. “This time three arrows,” he says while drawing his bow. He fires three consecutive shots — all of them landing on the bull’s-eye.

Bruce confirms the hits while pulling the arrows. “Three hits — all center spot”

It was your turn to fire. You entertain the thought of firing your bow at different angles and have the arrows hit the target at the same time — but that would be showboating. You fire the arrows normally and achieve the same result. Three hits — all center spot.

“Do we get Bruce to move the targets further?” asks Thomas.

It seems like a trick question, with him gauging if you were more of a soldier than a hunter.

“No,” you answer. “It doesn’t make much sense. I don’t think hunters need to shoot farther than that.”

“Indeed,” Thomas agrees. “Moving targets then? We can have Bruce carry the targets as we shoot it,” he says jokingly.

You shake your head knowing full well that it was a joke.

The match ends in a draw — neither of you willing to continue to draw-out the match to find a clear winner. The hunters have a clear understanding of your capabilities as a hunter and that seems enough for them.

Only Bruce was unsatisfied. He complained about lugging around the wooden target as well as getting shot at.

He asked for another spar with you — but you graciously declined.

Eomer put a stop to his shenanigans, reminding everyone that they need to get to town before dark or they’ll have to spend another night in the open.

A few hours later you see signs of smoke and other activities. A few riders on horseback pass your slow-moving wagon — some of them noting the successful hunt.

You pass a few houses on the outskirts and then you finally come upon the town of Ashford.