The Hunter

Small, sparse rays of sunlight break through the thick forest canopy. The hunter trudges
his way through a sea of dead leaves and plants, stepping carefully to avoid the roots of trees
hidden, woven through the leaves and dirt like a coiled serpent.
On a normal hunting excursion the hunter would never have dared to enter this part of the
forest, but war had taken its toll on the lands resources. For now, it had brought hunger and
sickness, but that would give in to starvation, and the hunter dared not think about what would
take place once all of the towns boot straps had been eaten. What few animals were left to hunt,
were claimed by the lords of the lands. A week past, a boy had been found convicted of
poaching; his crime was trying to keep his family alive. He was hung in Dusk Towns square and
his body was left for the crows. On the second dawn, the body arose missing an entire leg and
the town magister ordered the body be cut down and burned.
The local villagers had named this the Dead Forest. Superstitious mid-wives and nosy
barkeeps told stories of ravenous beasts that lay hidden in the ground and spiders the size of fully
grown men that stalked from tree canopies. These stories were mostly told to children and
travelers passing through, but they were enough to keep out townsfolk and even warded off
soldiers.
Bollocks, mumbled the hunter as he crept quietly between the trees. It was not until he
noticed his breath lingering, suspended midair by the cold, that the temperature had gotten
significantly colder the further he travelled in.
The hunter had walked a considerable distance before he came upon a single set of
animal tracks. Bloody large, this Elk, spoke the hunter to himself as he traced the hoof print

with a bare finger. Himself, he thought in realization. He had been alone all of this time. There
was no sound of scurrying animals, no buzzing flies, no breeze through the leaves, not even a
single bird call. The forest lay silent and still. Whatever elk made these tracks was massive in
size, but he had neither heard the hoofbeat nor felt the earth move. An unsettling feeling began to
sink into his gut and nagged at him, urging him to go back. The hunter decided to continue
forward and follow the tracks, putting the needs of his family before his instinct.
He followed the tracks diligently, weaving through trees and wading through still brooks,
until he came to a stop at the sound of cracking branches. The hunter spotted the silhouette of an
elk no more than fifty metres in front of him, its long antlers reaching up from behind a bush. He
brought his bow up calmly, and nocked an arrow with steady precision. The arrow flew forward
silently as the elks head came into view. Its serrated head cut deep into the meat of the neck.
The bulls cry was loud and pierced the hunters ears. It bucked violently for several
moments before the blood loss brought it to the ground. The sensation in the hunters gut only
increased with every step he took towards the animal. The first thing he noticed was the patched
white fur. The exposed skin was pink and raw and the white fur was dirty and thin. Its eyes were
pale and bloodshot, and its mouth was caked in dried blood.
The hunter stared at the beast for several moments before his concentration was broken.
In the far distance he heard the bugling of a lone elk, possibly responding to the cries of this one.
A moment later, that call was answered by another cry, and then another, and then another, until
the entire forest came to life. The hunter noticed something in the cries, however. They didnt
sound saddened or angered, but felt calculated, as if the animals had begun to converse with one
another. This time the hunter obeyed his instinct and turned to leave, only to realize that he did

not know exactly how he got to where he stood. The trees closed in around him like wall,
disorienting his sense of direction further; meanwhile the yelping came closer and closer,
sounding more and more excited.
The hunter noticed the jittery movement first; large shapes darting quickly in between the
trees and the bushes. He turned and ran, and though he did not know where he was running to, he
rationalized that any place must be better than there. Dead leaves crunched beneath his feet, and
branches cracked as they tugged at his coat. Like a well trained guard dog, the forest was now
stirring to life, attempting to awaken its masters.
The Hunter had run well over five kilomtetres when he reached a shallow river.
Ordinarily, crossing such a river was no great feat, but his thighs were aching and his lungs were
breathing fire. Another bugle sounded close by and urged him to keep moving and cross the
waters.
The icy waters picked up in speed the further he waded in. The mud at the bed grabbed at
his feet and slowed his pace. Fearing that he would fall of exhaustion, the hunter stopped for a
breath at the rivers centre. The cold water was now well past waist level. For a moment he
contemplated closing his eyes and drifting off with the current. His strength had been sapped and
the home seemed so very far away now. He thought about the warmth of the fireplace, the
crackling of roasting meat, the smell of fresh bread, and the laughter of his family. The vision
was shattered when another bugle sounded closer than before, prodding him to keep moving. He
looked back at the sound to see a slender white shape standing still behind the tree line. The
hunter and the hunted stared at each other for a moment before it bugled as the sickly elk had
done earlier, and disappeared back into the shadows.

As he crawled out of the river bank, the hunters right foot slipped on a dislodged rock.
The pain from the ankle shook his entire body. The freezing water had now been replaced by
something worse. The hunter knew that a broken ankle would slow his pace to a crawl, but even
still, he would crawls as far as needed to reach his family. As he hobbled onward, the bugles
sounded again; this time they didnt sound behind him, the bugles surrounded him.
The pain became overbearing, and the hunter dropped to his knees. He crawled, rapidly at
first, and then slowing down as sharp little rocks bit into his palms. The forest did not want him
to leave and now the hunter understood. He leaned against a tree and began to pray to the Gods
that he had once forgotten; perhaps, he thought, they would offer him some form of respite.
The hunter turned to look at the green canopy above him when he saw a large hand slip
out from behind and wrap around the tree; the black claws at the end of its long slender fingers
digging into the bark. Five fingers, the same as the hunters hand. Then he saw the massive black
hooves and followed them up the emaciated body; long and slender legs, tattered white fur that
cover an abdomen wrought in gashes exposing white ribcage and red organs, and the elk head
adorned with antlers with gleaming sharp tips. Even with a humanoid body, it sauntered around
the hunter on all fours like an animal. It stopped and stared at the hunter with pale and sickly
eyes. The white fur around its mouth was caked in dries, black blood. The beast reared on its
hind legs and let out a final cry.
The wind died down once again, and the waters flow slowed to a steady stream. Life had
entered the forest, but now it was dead once more.