Ezekiel Jones, D11 Tribute (![]() ![]() @ 2014-04-08 20:40:00 |
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Because of the mist, Shift nearly didn't notice the parachute until it landed within arm's reach from where he sat, his back up against a tree. It was oddly shaped, large, heavy, and he smiled as he opened it quickly. First, a full canteen. Water. He gulped down three mouthfuls greedily before pausing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He screwed it back up again and unwrapped the second part of the gift. A mace. Heavy, durable, fit well in his hand. His smile grew and he tested its weight before giving it a few experimental swings. Fit like a hammer in his hand: comfortable. This would do very nicely indeed. "Thanks," he said, tipping his face up into the mist as though looking heavenward. "This is perfect." It felt weird, talking to himself like this, but Terry was sleeping or off doing something hopefully not too far away. They'd stopped for a rest, a small one, when the parachute arrived. He almost said his brother's name but bit his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement, and Shift scrambled to his feet. The movement wasn't clear but he was pretty sure whatever it was, it wasn't another tribute. Not positive, but pretty. He didn't want to give himself away, so he stepped toward it quietly, the shape beginning to solidify out of the mist. A deer. A baby deer Then, he realized, food. He looked down at the mace he still clutched, took a deep breath, and strode forward, swinging at it with all his might. Unfortunately, along with the swing came a grunt. And the grunt spooked the fawn. The deer took off and Shift took off after it, trying to stay halfway focused on the surrounding mist and what that might mean for him. He tracked the deer not too far away, where it stopped to graze. When he took another step toward it, it bolted. Before Shift could chase after it again, a second deer -- a great big buck with antlers wider than Shift's own armspan -- stepped into view. He froze. They both, actually, froze. The buck snarled, its breath curling away from its nostrils, and stamped its front hoof. With its head down. Ready to charge. Shift let out a yelp of surprise, turned on his heel, and ran. The buck ran after him. Shift imagined he could feel its hot breath on the back of his neck. He ran faster, pushed harder, zig-zagged, swung his mace again and again behind him, blindly, until he lost the buck. (Or, more than likely, the buck gave up the chase.) Shift stopped, panting, bent over at the waist practically heaving. It had taken too much empty energy to chase that fawn, to try and have something for dinner, even if eating deer didn't sound all that appetizing on a normal day. He fought to catch his breath, knelt on the ground for a moment. So much for dinner. |