4. Hunting.

Zurka trudged through the snow, her breath creating little mist clouds in the crisp morning air. Mountain goats were clever creatures, they avoided paths where their tracks could easily be seen. But Zurka had some experience and her determination was unwavering. She knew that the goats liked to graze in the higher parts of the mountain, where the snow was thinner and the grass a little more plentiful. The sun had barely risen above the horizon, and the surrounding mountains were a mixture of white and gray.

Her steps were silent as she approached the sloping, rocky terrain, her gaze darting over the rocks and cliffs for any sign of movement. The mountain was a maze of shadows and echoes, playing with her senses. But she remained focused, her ears alert for the occasional bleat of a goat or the crunch of hooves on ice. Her keen sense of smell tried to detect their special scent. Hours passed, and the sun rose higher, painting the snow a pale blue, but still she found nothing.

Suddenly she heard it, a faint sound that made her heart beat faster. She crouched and listened. There it was again, the unmistakable rustle of a herd of goats! She approached cautiously, her eyes searching the rocks for the slightest hint of movement. And then she saw them, a small group of goats, their coats the same shade of gray as the boulders they clung to. They nibbled the sparse grass, their horns glinting in the faint light.

The hunt had begun.

Her muscles tensed with anticipation as Zurka stalked her quarry, choosing her path with the grace of a wildcat. The goats had not yet noticed her, and she needed to keep running quietly, almost silently, occasionally disappearing behind the rocks. One false step, one false move, and they would scatter across the mountain slopes, leaving her with nothing. The ground was getting steeper, the air a little thinner, but she kept moving forward, never taking her eyes off her prey.

The leader of the herd raised his head, alerted by some elusive change in the rhythm of the mountain. Zurka froze, her hand clutching the end of the throwing belt, in which lay a small but heavy stone. The goat's gaze met hers, and for a moment she felt an odd resemblance to this creature - they were both struggling to survive in this harsh land. But then the goat rushed forward, and the chase was on!

They moved across the mountain like tireless gusts of wind, in a mad dance of predator and prey. The goats easily jumped from ledge to ledge, their hooves confidently catching stone and ice. Zurka followed, her legs burning with the effort but the claws on her toes helping her grip, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She had to be careful: one slip in her jump and she could fall to her death. The goats led her higher and higher, playing a deadly game of tag among the rocks and boulders.

Finally, she got her chance. A large goat stumbled, her legs giving way on a slippery ledge. She fell and lay on the slope, breathing hard, her eyes wide with fear. Zurka unwound the strap with the stone and concentrated with utmost intensity, holding her breath. Everything depended on this moment. Her hand was steady despite the icy wind that numbed her fingers. The stone flew out of its leather pouch with a sharp whistle, flying through the air to strike the animal's head with precision. There was a knock that echoed in the mountains. The goat's eyes glazed over and she froze.

You can breathe out! The most important half of the job was done.