Narrative: Game Hunter Who: Garrett Edgewalker Where: The Bannorn When: Early summer, sometime between 9:40 and 9:45 Summary: A former werewolf finds a true-man hunting out on the Bannorn, and causes a bit of trouble in the name of evening the odds. Rating: T. A bunny dies for plot purposes. :(
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His mind works differently when he is a wolf.
When he was a man-wolf-thing, his thoughts were rambling, twisted, full of anger and blood and violence and little else - he was curious of things, yes, and daring and cocky, but wolfish lust-for-blood warred constantly with man-thoughts and man-actions, and when he could not control himself he was a wild and undisciplined thing, exasperating his mother and the Lady to no end. Later, when he is older and he loses the shape of a man-wolf-thing and is only small fleshy pink man-thing, his thoughts are at once both jumbled and crystalline, a hundred thousand threads of consciousness bound into one single incoherent stream, like salmon in a river, at once both working as a whole and a million individuals, at times acting at cross-purposes. It hurts, for a long time after he becomes a man-thing, it hurts to think, to breathe, to be, and until the restful solace of wolf-dreams come to him he is a useless ball of hairless muscle curled on the earthen floor of his mother's tent.
He did not like those times. He does not wish to go back to them, ever, if possible.
When he is a wolf, the world is much clearer, simpler. He does not think in words, as do the true-men or man-things or even the wolf-man-things. Instead his thoughts come in colors, emotions, pictures so still and bright that he could paint them if only he could hold them in his man-shape, gestures, twitches of muscle, and most especially scent. The Bannorn changes entirely when he goes from two legs to four, uncountable trails of scent and color and emotion and pheremones. Men hunt with eyes and weapons and nets; he hunts with his nose and his legs and his teeth, and when he catches wind of the rabbit trembling in the long plains-grasses it is not because he sees its lanky shape hidden in the weeds. He smells its fear - rabbits always smell like fear, for theirs is a nervous lot in existence, and the scent is so entangled with the animal that he can never eat rabbit without tasting its terror upon its tongue - and then it smells him, and the hare is off like a shot, bounding across the plains, streaking hell for leather for its burrow - or it tries to; its hind legs are caught in a snare, and the wolf has absolutely no qualms of taking advantage of the situation to feed. He flicks out one massive paw to pin it, and in a trice he has his teeth clamped over its throat. The rabbit has no chance against the strength in his jaws, flailing its long hindlegs once, twice, before he shakes the hare harshly enough to feel the bones of it cracking. For a wolf of his size, it is a snack and little more, but food on the Bannorn is hard to come by unless one hunts the livestock of the true-men who live in the man-villages. Not a scrap of his rabbit goes to waste.
It is a more merciful and respectful end, in his opinion, that the snared rabbit should go to feed another predator, instead of sitting and stewing in its own terror till the trapper comes to claim it. And thinking of the trapper -
With gamey meat sitting in his belly and his muzzle licked clean, he paces the grasses and scents the winds, and finds the odor of true-men: sweat, and cursing (cursing smells black and acrid, like green wood burning) and dogs, and steel and curing furs and roasting meat. Aha. Not merely a trapper, but a tanner is out on the Bannorn, and the wolf lifts his blonde head as he walks, and sweeps his yellow eyes across the grassy plain dotted with copses of trees, circling as far as half a mile wide of the stench of men. He finds more snares, simple but effective, for hunting rabbit and fox, and two traps by the stream to catch drinking deer - leg-catchers, for raccoon and lynx, what few of them there are in this section of the Bannorn, and one massive trap with jagged rusting teeth, its size and placement indicative of no less than a hope of catching bear. All of these first are empty, and he disarms each one, deft paws and razor teeth destroying or disabling or setting off harmlessly -
- but the bear trap was more complicated, and Garrett knelt in the shade of the grass and trees in a shape that had fingers, callused hands careful and blonde brows frowned in hawkish concentration. The bear trap was, as most leg-traps were, triggered by pressure, and unless he picked up the thing entire and flung it at the nearest tree, no branch or stick would make its savage jaws slam shut; the more difficult course it is, then, and Garrett disassembled it piece by piece, scattering the rusted metal among the grass and exposed tree roots. The tanner would have a merry hunt of that piece of nastiness, though Garrett reminded himself to be wary while hunting in this part of the Bannorn, lest his own leg find itself stuck fast in a hunter's trap.
Besides, if the Lady had taught him a single lesson, it was that all things must have balance - both a chance at life for the prey, and a chance to eat for the predator. The traps gave the true-man an unfair advantage, and if he were really that hungry, he would learn to hunt without the snares. (Such a rule did not apply to him, of course; he was a wolf, after all, and therefore outside the rules governing the actions and fair balance of true-men.)
He stood still in the tree-shadows long enough to decide that he had not been discovered, before he once again turned his thoughts towards a shape that was all fur and muscle and elegant simplicity -
- and travelling on light feet, he makes his careful way towards the center of the true-man stink, the tanner's camp, ringed round with half-cured skins and furs and centered upon a fire, upon which skinned venison is slowly roasting, caught between licking flame and afternoon sun. There is also, much to his unpleasant startlement, a Mabari-hound near the fire, her ears small and pert and her tongue lolling, the stub of her tail slowly wagging as her master painstakingly plies his skills upon a metal contraption in his lap. The wolf also takes care, but to stay downwind of the dog and her brutish frame, for Mabari are fearsome opponents, dogs bred specifically to hunt his kind. Though the wolf is young and brash, he is all too aware that he is not invincible. Hunger leads to stupid mistakes, and a stupid mistake is why there is a perfect set of fang-imprints from Mabari teeth upon one of his flanks, beneath the dark gold fur.
There is no such thing as a Mabari that commands too much respect.
Her presence changes the wolf's plans, and he paces the campsite in the emerald shadows, the sun beating down and blinding the tanner and his dog. After a time, he decides that he will wait until the tanner leaves to check his traps, the wolf settling down in a patch of shade, head low, ears pricked, yellow eyes watchful.
It takes an hour of the venison tormenting him with its scent before the tanner whistles to his Mabari, and the pair of them leave to make the rounds of the snares and traps. The wolf waits fifteen minutes - a commendably long time, with roast venison full in his nostrils and making his mouth water - before he darts in to thieve the trapper's catch, making off with deer and stick whole, leaving the rest of the camp untouched.
He has done enough mischief for this day, and the venison is delicious.
By the time the tanner finds the bear-trap and screams his black rage to the sky, Garrett Edgewalker is long gone.