Hunting High and Low

Your presence is barely acknowledged as you head out the threadbare gates of the Bastion. Your absence even less so, as you pause to tie your shoe before forging your own way into the woods.

You do your best to keep your pace steady, crunching through thicketed underbrush and marking down any distinctive trees or rock formations. Remus leads you down a barely visible animal trail, salivating at the scent. You follow close behind, hunched to almost mimic him, concealing your form amongst the weeds.

A flash of colour on the side gives you pause. Remus seems intent on continuing, but you whistle him back and take a few steps into a small clearing. The smell is instantly familiar: roses. It seems more pungent than usual and you don’t realise why until you reach out and a stem turns to mulch in your fingers. A particularly nasty case of grey mould, it seems. You manage to salvage a single bud from the wreckage. Its thorns sting your fingers and you almost lose it, but you cling onto it and carefully wash away any blood with a couple of drops of water.

Remus suddenly twitches his head, giving you a glance. You nod and he bolts off, leaving you to follow as silently as you can, back onto the trail. You soon see his target: a small buck, strayed from its herd. It seems on edge, its eyes darting searchingly.

You fire, once, into its shoulder. It makes to run – and you see Remus, ratcheted ready to intercept – then stumbles, colliding clumsily with a tree and stilling. You cover it, making a careful note on your map.

The search for citrus is less successful. The best you can find is a couple of shrivelled old oranges. Still, you pocket them. The seeds might be salvageable, at least.

You are on your way back to the deer when Remus stops again. You recognise that look in his eye. It means trouble.

You follow his gaze to the figure, stumbling across the top of a ridge in a familiar rhythm. Your hand readies. Finger on the trigger. It stops, facing away, swaying in an almost leisurely fashion. A twitch, turning to look at you. You adjust the rifle.

Surely, they see you now.

To your side, Remus is poised.

Surely.

It’s too dim through the foliage to make out their face, but those eyes… you can feel them. Staring into your own.

They take a step forward. A hand, reaching out.

Then Remus growls and it’s lurching forward and your hands are moving and–

You fire, once, into its shoulder. It runs.

You stumble over to where it was. Its arm lies by a tree, dripping dark blood from the tendons that once made up a shoulder. A shard of bone is lodged in a nearby tree, an off-white ivory almost spongy in texture. The fingers are half-curled, as if they were just shaking someone’s hand. You cover it. At least Colby will be happy.

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