Game

The Nithra Forest lay sprawled to the West of the sharp, jutting cliffs of the Eyrie, clouds dipping into the canopy of the ancient trees. Eyrie Falls erupted from the highest point of the settlement, feeding the rich wetlands and rivers that flowed through the landscape. The winding paths and game trails extended far beyond the shifters’ territory, beyond the Wilds that eventually petered into the haunted desolation of the Rihlian Steppes.

When darkness descended and dappled moonlight filtered through the thick foliage, it was said that voices echoed throughout the wilderness. Songs of fae and ancient beings, the true rulers of the sprawling woodlands. Most Eyrie shifters, Eagle and Falcon alike, were too frightened to wander into the forest after twilight.

But not Bolero soon-to-be Flameweaver. These woods sung in his veins, filled his bones with feral delight. They had ever since he was an eyass- a bird shifter child.

He calmed his breathing, staring at the hoof prints on the soggy trail. The hind was here, in this small clearing. He could smell the animal’s musk, the ancestral bedding grounds she slept in with her herd nightly. Bent grass, saplings bitten at the root, trees stripped of bark at their base.

To fell the occasional deer was to protect the forest.

Movement, out of his periphery.

It’s her, he thought, and moved before he had much time to think.

Bolero released his bow string with a soft “twang.” A quiet thunk soon followed, a spray of blood erupting from the beast’s side. The sound of hooves, frantically running. Bolero inhaled deeply, the smell of copper heavy on his tongue, and followed the beast.

The sun had lowered further on the horizon once he found her. She lay dying, her chest rising slowly. He gazed into the deer’s large, dark eyes. Clouded now, under the veil of death. No more would the doe’s hooves carve spoor in the soil of the forest paths. No more boughs bent by her gait. This had been a good dispatch, all things considered. Bolero inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. The scent of blood on the forest floor permeated his nostrils. The leaves rustled above his head, the only sound in the forest, which had fallen into mostly silence.

Muttering a prayer of thanks, he withdrew his hunting knife from the poor beast’s throat. The remainder of the deer’s lifeblood poured quickly onto the leaf-littered ground. Life would grow from the doe’s death. It was the way of the forest, and the way of his people.

With one final, rattling breath, the doe went still. Bolero shuttered his eyes, inhaling deeply before hanging the carcass from a low tree limb. He went to work gutting her, although he always disliked this part of hunting. The field-dressing, the mess, and the waste that came from such a process. It was all-too-human. As if he couldn’t simply catch game in his preferred form- with his hawk’s talons, curved and graceful and honed for the kill.

Hunting on the wing was exhilarating. The feel of the chase as he wound his way in between the branches and towering oaks of the forest was nothing like using the bow and arrow he’d taken the deer down with. So impersonal. It almost felt cheap.

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The sun lowered on the horizon as he worked at the carcass, butchering and using the hind’s skin to wrap the choicest cuts.

The feathers at the nape of his neck raised in alarm, smoldering with heat as twigs broke behind him in the silence of the forest. Bolero whirled to find the source, hunting knife palmed in his hand, ready to strike.

Nothing?

Eerie silence enveloped the section of the forest, the rush of Bolero’s breathing the only sound. So he was alone.

Swinging the satchel of fresh-butchered venison, Bolero turned to track down the day’s hunting party. He was a known wanderer, and it was only his hunting prowess that prevented suspicion by the Haggards. At least…that’s what he assumed. Maeby had told him numerous times to stop these ramblings while out with the hunting party, but…

These woods had always called to him, like an old companion. He would see himself banished before he would give up hunting here.

To be Eyrie is to be guarded, he repeated the prayer in his head, eyes roving the trees around him, to be Eyrie is to be chosen. Chosen by the maker of stars, crafted by the universal light… A strange shadow moved quickly behind a nearby cedar before Bolero found two gleaming eyes watching him. They focused on him before darting away, hiding behind the tree once again.

Not aggressive, then.

Bolero offered the being a slight smile, wondering how long it had been watching him. He glanced sharply around him. Alone. Good. He was alone, except for this…apparition. This was no Fae. No Sidhe or Pari. More likely one of the many nature spirits that dwelled here. Pity blossomed in Bolero’s chest. Perhaps it was hungry. Did spirits get hungry?

His people were so sequestered, so private. He realized he didn’t know the answer. Did the fae races eat? They must, because the legends said not to eat fae food, or drink their wine…

He scanned his surroundings-surely the party would tell Nadine if they caught him consorting with an Ancient. Any form of interaction with the beings here was strictly forbidden. One of many things that were considered taboo. Content enough that his company was still off chasing that damned rabbit, Bolero packed the rest of the venison up, tying the skins tightly. But not before removing a few pieces of the raw meat. With a subtle motion and a slight incline of his head, Bolero tossed some venison scraps and pieces of sinew towards the spirit.

The hunters yelled nearby, the game call of his people. It alerted others to quarry on the move. They would expect him to reunite with them soon. Luckily his game bag was full. The others would have bagged a rabbit, at best.

He’d managed an entire deer.

Time to go.

With one last glance at the blood-stained soil and offer he’d left on the forest path, he turned to leave.

Behind him, a faint voice echoed.

Like a forgotten memory, the soft, chiding tone of a woman in the mad throes of love. Edged with panic, it beseeched him…

Unfamiliar and otherworldly, it sent chills down his spine.