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he breathed and shot in one fluid motion embracing the moment of stillness in body and mind that he had learnt from bitter and hungry experience. he heard the doll from of the bowstring during and then a thud as the arrow hit home. he sprinted towards his page and Drew a skinning knife from the Slim scabbard at his thigh, but It was dead before he got to, it a good clean kill. that's what Berdon would have stayed but, Killing was always messy. the bloody bubbling froth from the elks mouth was a testament to that. please remove the arrow carefully and was happy to see the shaft had not snapped, nor had the flint point chipped on the

elk's ribs. Although he was Fletcher by name, the amount of time he spent binding his arrows frustrated him. He preferred

The work Berdon would occasionally give him, hammering and shaping iron in the forge. Perhaps it was the heat, or the way his muscles ached deliciously after a hard day's work. Or maybe it was the coin that weighed down his pockets when he was paid afterwards.

The young elk was heavy, but he was not far from the village.

The antlers made for good handholds, and the carcass slipped easily enough over the wet grass. His only concern would be the

wolves or even the wildcats now. It was not unknown for them to steal a hunter's meal, if not his life, as he brought his prize

back home.

He was hunting on the ridge of the Beartooth Mountains, called for their distinctive twin peaks that looked like wolf

canines. The village lay on the jagged ridge between them, the only path up to it on a steep and rocky trail in clear view from

the gates. A thick wooden palisade surrounded the village,with small watchtowers at intervals along the top. The village

had not been attacked for a long time, only once in Fletchers

fifteen years in fact. Even then, it had been a small band of

thieves rather than an orc raid, unlikely as that was this far north

of the jungles. Despite this, the village council took security very

Seriously, and getting in after the ninth bell was always a nightmare for latecomers.

Fletcher manoeuvred the animal's carcass on to the thick grass that grew beside the rocky path. He didn't want to damage

The coat it was the most valuable part of the elk. Furs were one of the few resources the village had to trade, earning it its name: Pelt.

It was heavy going and the path was treacherous underfoot

even more so in the dark. The sun had already disappeared behind the ridge, and Fletcher knew the bell would be sounding

any minute. He gritted his teeth and hurried, stumbling and cursing as he grazed his knees on the gravel.

His heart sank when he reached the front gates. They were

Closed, the lanterns above lit for their nightlong vigil. The lazy guards had closed up early, eager for a drink in the village tavern.

"You lazy sods! The ninth bell hasn't even rung YET" Fletcher cursed and let the elk's antlers fall to the ground. "Let me in! I'm

not sleeping out here just because you can't wait to drink yourselves STUPID" He SLAMMED his boot into the door.

"Now, now, Fletcher, keep it down. There's good people sleeping in here, came a voice from above" . It was Didric. He

leaned out over the parapet above Fletcher, his large moonish face grinning nastily.

Fletcher grimaced. Of all the guards who could have been

on duty tonight, it had to be Didric Cavell, the worst of the bunch. He was fifteen, the same age as Fletcher, but he fancied himself a grown man. Fletcher did not like didric. the guardsman was a bully always looking for an excuse to exercise his authority.

"I sent the day-watch off early tonight you see I take my duties very seriously can't be too careful with the traders arriving tomorrow you never know what kind of riff raff will be sneaking about outside" he chuckled at his jibe.