Where Imenry was an archer by necessity, Hilda was one by trade and calling alike - her poet's hands transformed into weapons of war, equally as artful pulling back the immense draw on the witch-bow as they were shaping images to add to her skaldic words. Imenry aimed, careful, so very careful, and while she aimed for the stag Hilda aimed for where the stag would be if for some unluckful reason, the other woman's skill might falter ever so briefly; the bolt flew but the stag started, the bolt buried in the ribs, a good shot and one that would bring him down, but only with time and needless suffering as he suffocated under a punctured lung, or bled out into the clear water of the stream.
Hilda, who like Imenry had grown up in a frozen desert where even blood was a precious resource and where the best hunters in the neighborhood were those with no qualms in stealing kills from human trackers, did not intend to cause the stag to suffer. He stumbled in his traces and turned the angle of his body, and that was to his good fortune as well as hers, as Hilda adjusted her shot, exhaled, loosed her arrow, which flew straight and true -
- A shoulder shot, this time, though the stag attempted to twist away at the snap of the bowstring, could not find the footing in time. He sprang away several steps, adrenaline high in his system and still attempting escape, but Hilda was calm as she followed him into the shadows, foreign words, some Anderfeln and some other, dropping from her lips, quiet but sober. Wyrd ben ful araed; fate cannot be changed, but the stag could be honored for the gift of life nevertheless. The stag, losing blood rapidly, lumbered through the underbrush, too weak to live, but too stubborn to die. A warrior spirit - unfortunate it must be ended early. Pray one of the women had a blade to make his death a clean one.