7th of summer, 515 a.v.
mid-morning
Shahar narrowed his eyes. The grass before him as an uninformative veil of waving green and brown, revealing little of what he was absolutely certain lay behind it.
It hadn’t been particularly difficult to track the flock of grouse; it was early summer, and the females were moving to their nesting grounds by the dozens. He saw their marks in the dirt and saw their disturbances in the grass, and so he knew that they were close. He just couldn’t see them.
Tuka was beside him, tensed in a low crouch that meant she was ready to move when he did. She could smell the birds; she knew what they were hunting. If he took a shot and missed, there was a chance that she might be able to run down his target and snatch it before it got too high into the air. A javelin was in his right hand, two more waited in his left should he need them; there were both ready to hunt.
All that was left to do was to find what it was that they were hunting.
Bushes. He had to find bushes, or brambles, or any of those things that grouse might nest under. The hens were most likely to be on their eggs, in which case they relied upon the patterns of their feathers to keep them safe.
Shahar moved carefully, stepping only on dark-rotted grass or bare dirt to limit the amount of unnecessary noise he made in his passage. He wasn’t silent, of course, but he was certainly making less noise than he would have if he had chosen to just walk as he normally did, and it let Tuka know that now was a time for quietness.
The two of them moved through the grass cautiously, Tuka’s eyes resolutely forward while Shahar’s roamed to find the more horizontally inclined plants that grouse hens liked to make their homes beneath. That dark patch, was that a bush? They moved towards it. No, it was a patch of mullen. Shahar huffed irritably. Wait, was that––yes! It was!
A bush lingered just within sight, and the two hunters made their way towards it. Shahar had long since learned that the trick to finding grouse was not to look for the colors, but for the shape, and what was easiest when one looked at a spot directly next to them. Yes, he could see it; she sat uneasily beneath the cover of the sagebrush, not quite willing to abandon her nest just yet.
Prepare. Shahar drew back his arm, took a breath and let his javelin fly.
mid-morning
Shahar narrowed his eyes. The grass before him as an uninformative veil of waving green and brown, revealing little of what he was absolutely certain lay behind it.
It hadn’t been particularly difficult to track the flock of grouse; it was early summer, and the females were moving to their nesting grounds by the dozens. He saw their marks in the dirt and saw their disturbances in the grass, and so he knew that they were close. He just couldn’t see them.
Tuka was beside him, tensed in a low crouch that meant she was ready to move when he did. She could smell the birds; she knew what they were hunting. If he took a shot and missed, there was a chance that she might be able to run down his target and snatch it before it got too high into the air. A javelin was in his right hand, two more waited in his left should he need them; there were both ready to hunt.
All that was left to do was to find what it was that they were hunting.
Bushes. He had to find bushes, or brambles, or any of those things that grouse might nest under. The hens were most likely to be on their eggs, in which case they relied upon the patterns of their feathers to keep them safe.
Shahar moved carefully, stepping only on dark-rotted grass or bare dirt to limit the amount of unnecessary noise he made in his passage. He wasn’t silent, of course, but he was certainly making less noise than he would have if he had chosen to just walk as he normally did, and it let Tuka know that now was a time for quietness.
The two of them moved through the grass cautiously, Tuka’s eyes resolutely forward while Shahar’s roamed to find the more horizontally inclined plants that grouse hens liked to make their homes beneath. That dark patch, was that a bush? They moved towards it. No, it was a patch of mullen. Shahar huffed irritably. Wait, was that––yes! It was!
A bush lingered just within sight, and the two hunters made their way towards it. Shahar had long since learned that the trick to finding grouse was not to look for the colors, but for the shape, and what was easiest when one looked at a spot directly next to them. Yes, he could see it; she sat uneasily beneath the cover of the sagebrush, not quite willing to abandon her nest just yet.
Prepare. Shahar drew back his arm, took a breath and let his javelin fly.
