The snow drifted slowly around the clearing as the elk strode through. The elk had just finished rubbing its antlers against a tall pine, scraping the soft velvet that coated them to leave the sharp tines beneath. From its small size and stature, it was just barely a juvenile, sporting its first set of antlers. It was a fine specimen, with glossy fur and bright, intelligent eyes.
A thick mist hung heavy in the air, coating the ground in a thin layer of fog. The forest was unusually still. Normally the wind rattled the branches around these parts but today there was no wind.
As the elk made its way across the clearing, it failed to notice the quiet sound of a bowstring being pulled, noticing all too late once the twang of the string being released echoed. It was a beautiful shot, taking the elk through the chest, into the lungs and heart. The animal collapsed and convulsed, thrashing on the snow-covered ground, its hooves drumming a tattoo on the earth underneath the snow in its death throes.
From the woods, a figure clothed in thick layers of fur sprinted towards the prey and drew a skinning knife from the slim scabbard in his pocket, but the stag was dead before he got to it. A good clean kill, that’s what Otto would have said. But killing was always messy. The bloody froth bubbling from the elk’s mouth was a testament to that.
He removed the arrow carefully and was happy to see the shaft had not snapped, nor had the flint point chipped on the elk’s ribs. Slipping the arrow back into its quiver, once he had wiped away the blood and viscera stuck to it, the hunter turned his attention towards the elk.
The young elk was heavy, but he was not far from the village. The antlers made for good handholds, and the carcass slipped easily enough over the snow. His only concern would be the wolves or even the mountain lions now. It was not unknown for them to steal a hunter’s meal, if not his life, as he brought his prize back home.
He was hunting on the ridge of the Dragonback Mountains, so called for their distinctive peaks that looked like the spines of dragons. The village lay at the foot of one of these spines, the path leading to it steep and rocky. A thick wooden palisade surrounded the village, with small watchtowers at intervals along the top. The village had not been attacked for a long time, only once seventeen years ago. Even then, it had been a small band of thieves and bandits looking to make coin rather than an orc raid, unlikely as that was this far north of the wastelands.
It was heavy going and the path was treacherous underfoot, even more as the forest grew darker and darker. The sun had already disappeared behind one of the spines by the time the hunter had reached the gate.
Already the lanterns were lit and atop the wooden walls, guards in furs even thicker than his own paced back and forth. The hunter approached the gate, his shoulders hunched against the growing cold. He stopped before the gate, shifting the weight of the carcass behind him as he called out, his voice rough and muffled from the chill air and his mask.
"Open up! It’s Calder!"
A moment passed, the sound of footsteps on the wooden walkway above the gate breaking the stillness. One of the guards leaned over, his breath forming clouds as he squinted into the gloom. Recognizing the hunter, he waved to someone out of sight, and the heavy creak of the gate's hinges echoed into the night.
"Out late again, Calder?" the guard asked his tone halfway between a jest and a reprimand. The guards were never fond of those who came to the gates late at night.
"Had to make it worth the trip," Calder replied, stepping through the gate as it swung open just wide enough for him to enter. He glanced back briefly, his eyes scanning the darkened path behind him before the gate closed with a heavy thud.
Inside, the village was quiet with only a handful of people about. Most had already retreated to the warmth of their homes, their windows glowing faintly from hearths burning bright. Calder adjusted his grip on the elk’s antlers, nodding to a woman bundled in woolen shawls as she passed, her arms laden with kindling. The crunch of his boots on the packed snow echoed faintly in the stillness as he made his way down the main thoroughfare, where the butcher’s shop stood at the edge of the central square.
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The square was dominated by a large, stone well, its surface rimmed with frost. A few villagers lingered nearby, speaking in hushed tones. Their conversation stopped as Calder approached, their eyes flicking to the elk before returning to him with quiet acknowledgment. Calder offered a curt nod, his focus unwavering as he stepped into the light spilling from the butcher’s doorway.
Inside, the warmth hit him immediately, the rich scent of cured meats mingling with the sharp tang of iron. The butcher, a broad-shouldered man with a ruddy face and an apron smeared with blood, looked up from his work. A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on a cloth.
“Calder! You’ve brought me something good, I hope,” he said, his voice hearty but tinged with curiosity as his eyes appraised the elk. With some help from the butcher, Calder hefted the elk onto the counter with a solid thud, the animal's glossy hide catching the flicker of the lanterns. "Fresh from the ridge," he replied, "Young, but it'll dress out clean. Should fetch a good weight in meat."
The butcher leaned in, his practiced hands running along the carcass, testing the tension of the muscles and inspecting the wound. He grunted appreciatively. "Good shot," he muttered, tapping the entry point. "Straight through—clean kill. You don’t see much hesitation from you these days, eh?"
Calder shrugged, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "Hesitation doesn’t fill the pot."
The butcher chuckled, stepping back and wiping his hands again. "Fair enough. How about…hm…50 drennar?”
Calder raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fifty drennar? For a clean kill like this, with a pelt untouched and prime cuts? You’re cutting me short, Mathis."
The butcher crossed his arms, his grin shifting to a more calculated expression. "Fifty’s fair, Calder. Winter’s been hard on everyone. Meat’s not moving like it should, not when folks are stretching every coin for firewood and salt."
Calder stepped closer to the counter, his voice dropping a notch. "Hard or not, you know the worth of this elk. The hide alone will fetch twice that in the capital. Seventy-five, and I’ll let you keep the antlers for your little carvings."
Mathis tapped his chin, pretending to mull it over, though Calder could see the glint of interest in his eyes at the mention of the antlers. After a moment, the butcher sighed dramatically. "Sixty-five, and I’ll throw in a smoked haunch from last week’s hog."
"Done," Calder said, extending a hand before the butcher could rethink his offer.
Mathis clasped it firmly, chuckling. "Always the sharp one, eh? Fine. You’ll have your coin by tomorrow, as usual."
Calder nodded, stepping back and adjusting his cloak. "Pleasure as always, Mathis. Keep the haunch ready."
As he turned to leave, Mathis called after him, "Don’t let the wolves get you on the way home!"
Calder smirked as he left the shop, already hearing the thumping noises of a cleaver being swung behind him. Pulling up his furs, he made his way away from the square and headed down the narrow, snow-covered path that led toward the outskirts of the village. The warm glow of lanterns and hearths dwindled with each step, and the sound of his boots crunching on the frozen ground filled the ever-stilling air. He pulled his furs tighter around him as the wind began to pick up, slicing through the gaps in his clothing and carrying with it the faint scent of pine and smoke.
The path twisted through the edge of the village, where homes were spaced further apart, their shapes huddled against the encroaching forest like weary sentinels. Calder passed a few stray villagers on their way home, exchanging nods but little else. Most were bundled so tightly against the cold that their faces were hidden, their focus on reaching shelter before the chill deepened further.
As he approached his hovel, the palisade loomed to his left, the wooden stakes darkened with frost. Calder’s home was the last before the wilds began, a fact that offered both privacy and unease. It wasn’t unusual to hear the calls of distant wolves or the groan of trees shifting under the weight of snow during the long winter nights.
Calder pushed the door open and stepped inside. The warmth hit him immediately, and he exhaled in relief as he bolted the door behind him. The single-room hovel was dim, lit only by the dying light of the hearth. A cot in one corner, a rickety table with mismatched chairs, and a few shelves stocked with tools and dried herbs made up his simple living space.
He shrugged off his cloak and hung it on a peg near the door, the heavy fur still carrying the chill of the outdoors. Placing down his bow and his arrows next to it, he moved to the hearth and added another log to the fire. Gradually, the flames came to life. Soon, the warmth spread through the room, driving away the worst of the cold.
Calder lingered by the fire for a moment, his hands outstretched toward the growing flames. The heat seeped into his stiff fingers, chasing away the numbness that had settled in during the long trek home. The soft crackle of the fire filled the small room, a soothing rhythm against the quiet of the night.
Once his hands were warm, he moved to the small table and began unpacking his pouch. He laid out the few items he’d carried with him—an oilcloth-wrapped bundle of dried meat, a handful of arrowheads he’d traded for last week, and a small leather pouch of salt. His knife rested on the table beside the pouch, its blade dull from the day’s use.
He reached for the knife and a sharpening stone from the shelf, setting to work with slow, methodical strokes. The scrape of iron on stone mingled with the crackle of the fire, creating a rhythm that steadied his nerves. He had a long night ahead of him.