Vermilion Rewrite ~ Three: Hunter

[annarti.livejournal.com]

The hunter whistled quietly to herself as she walked, hands in pockets, up the river away from Candlewood. The hills rolled out around her, looking like some soft, crumpled blanket, a patchwork of autumn forest copses and waving grasses. Though nothing as impressive as the far northern mountains, the hills in this region were more inviting, warm and homely.

And full of game, the hunter thought with a grin, hitching her bow more comfortably over her shoulder before taking one hand from her pocket to scratch at the back of her neck and run it through shaggy salt-and-pepper hair.

An hour or so from the town, she spotted a herd of grazing springboks not too far from the river. If she could find a tree close enough, she would have the perfect spot to hide in wait for them.

There was a suitable tree about ten paces from the river, a scraggy oak, old but with enough branches and leaves to conceal her from the herd’s sight. The hunter slung her leather strap around the back of the tree’s trunk, wrapped its ends tightly around each hand and threw herself at the tree. Her thick-soled boots dug into the rough bark, allowing her to haul herself up to the branches where she could grab one with a leather-gloved hand and swing into the canopy.

She was almost out of breath when she settled herself on the branch, but at least she wasn’t out of practice. She glanced over towards the herd of springboks as she positioned himself more comfortably on the branch, snapping off a few inconveniently placed twigs. The animals didn’t appear to have noticed her, or if they did, they didn’t perceive any immediate danger.

The hunter nodded to herself in satisfaction, then took her bow from her shoulder and slid an arrow from her quiver. She tested the bow briefly, pulling the string back and forwards a few times. She would have to make a new one soon, she knew. This one had lasted for a while now.

She yawned and ran her fingers over the dull brown feathers of her fletching, rolling ankles and shoulders as she watched the herd slowly, so slowly approach the river. It was the kind of day when the hunter could almost doze off right there in her tree if she weren’t careful. She would almost have preferred that, she thought, but she needed to make a living somehow, and it seemed that firing a bow was all she was good at.

She shook her head with a frowning glare directed at herself. It was a beautiful day, the herd was right there already, no more than an hour after setting out from town, and life was good. But still that morbid train of thought wound on.

Every other kingdom prized bowmen, as warriors rather than lowly hunters. The hunter had heard of the richly dressed nobility who competed at the prestigious Grand Tournament in Amberley. She wished she could one day compete in the Tournament herself, or even just go to watch it, but she would need a good deal more money before she could entertain such an idea.

Which brought her back to the scratchy, twiggy old oak.

‘Stop it,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Life is good.’

The herd was close now, stubby little tails whipping from side to side as the more experienced members of the herd watched the river, checking with big dark eyes and long ears.

The hunter kept so still as to almost hold her breath as the first of the springboks tentatively made his way to the water’s edge, followed shortly after by half a dozen others.

The hunter watched each animal carefully for signs that the herd was relaxing and picking her target at the same time. It was always a difficult choice, whether to shoot an older animal with impressive horns, or a younger one with more tender meat. Probably, with the castle’s dinner party on tonight, the gathered nobility would want some tender meat at some point during their stay in Candlewood, the hunter reasoned. Horns could always be sold to some craftsman or passing merchant, but expensive meat would only be bought by nobility.

The springboks’ ears flicked against their spiralled horns as they watched the grass around the river. The hunter very slowly, very smoothly lifted her bow. She ran her fingers over the string as she nocked the butt of the arrow against it. Her rough fingers massaged the bow to make certain her grip was secure, then she took the string in three fingers and pulled back, lining the shaft up towards one of the younger animals. She held the bow there for a moment as a gust of warm, dusty wind blew down the valley, then, when it had died down, she let her arrow loose.

The effect was instantaneous. The young springbok screamed in a peculiarly hoarse, gurgling voice as the hunter’s arrow drilled into its throat. It sprang once into the air, shook its head and let out another, much weaker squeal, then fell to the ground, legs flailing.

The rest of the herd scattered, darting in crazy patterns with apparently no direction but to just get away from the river. They bounced high into the air as they ran, looking comical despite their elegant bodies. The drumming sound of their hooves against the sandy soil lasted a few moments, then they were gone, leaving only the young animal the hunter had shot.

The hunter hooked her bow back over her shoulder and swung backwards, her knees still hooked over the branch before she flipped himself from it. Her heavy soles landed with a loud thud and a jarring up her legs that made her cry out and clench her teeth.

‘I’m too old for this,’ she lamented, hobbling down the hill towards the young springbok.

The animal had stopped moving now, and only a shallow, gasping breath came from its mouth. It kicked one leg half-heartedly as the hunter approached, but it was clear it could do no more.

The hunter straddled one leg over each side of the dying animal’s neck, then took its head in both hands and roughly jerked it backwards, snapping its neck easily and putting the springbok out of its misery.

The hunter scratched the back of her neck as she stared down at the springbok. This was always the worst part of her profession, and whyshe now only ever travelled an hour or so from town. It was also the main reason why selecting a younger animal was becoming more and more frequent. In times past, er wife would have helped her string it onto a pole to carry back together, but she had grown tired of this life years ago. The hunter knew she was lucky to still have her at all, lucky that she was still at least half-willing to help her prepare her foray for the butcher.

She took a deep breath and steeled her jaw, positioning herself between the springbok’s legs as she set her heavy boots apart. She bent her knees and took hold of the animal’s legs, then with great effort she slung it up over her shoulders. She had to take a heavy step forwards under its weight, but at least she didn’t fall over.

She stood for a few moments to properly catch her balance, then straightened as much as her burden allowed her and set off back to Candlewood.

She had to rest twice on the way, dumping the animal carefully so she wouldn’t scratch its pelt against rocks or thorns, then groaning as she rolled out the cricks in her neck and the stiffness in every part of her body.

Finally, she staggered into the town, crossing around the back of the castle to where his house lay on the outskirts of Candlewood. It wouldn’t do for a dead carcass to be seen, let alone smelt, by the rest of the town.

She could see the flapping red coat of Master Vermilion down the street towards the town square. Despite her exhaustion, the hunter scoffed. He liked to make such a show of being one with his people, mingling with them in the town, buying things from their shops and making a point that he was the one doing it, not his servants. He would be showing off even more today, with the gathered nobility crowded into Candlewood, but he would never come down this end of town. His own town disgusted him more than the young master was willing to let on.

The hunter scowled at the disappearing red coat before stumbling in through her front door. She dumped the springbok unceremoniously on the table, then slumped into a sturdy wooden chair, completely exhausted.

She heard her wife sigh somewhere over her shoulder as she panted heavily in her chair, her closed eyes turned towards the ceiling.

‘Why do you do this every day?’ she asked her quietly. Was it sympathy in her voice, or pity? If the hunter wasn’t so tired, maybe she could discern between the two tones.

‘For you,’ she answered finally between heavy breaths.

Her wife sighed again and placed her rough hands on her shoulders. Her thumbs always knew exactly how to untie the knots in her neck and back, and she bent forwards gratefully to rest her head on the table.

‘I’ll prepare the beast,’ she said, that same quiet note of sympathy or pity in her voice, then she patted the hunter on the back and left her to doze.

Comments

[saiena.livejournal.com]

Random half-remembered fact for the day: I once watched a documentary about men going on big game hunting trips in South Africa (Louis Theroux is the best) and there was one guy who liked to hunt antelope with high powered bows. According to him the best place to shoot deer-like game is behind the front leg – the arrow goes through the ribs and lung to hit the heart. Since they always run, it's the best place to hit to ensure it drops dead before getting too far away. Apparently.
I have no idea why I still remember this, but I thought I'd share anyway.

This one is both sweet and a little sad. The price of age and love :(

I’m loving these little hints of how people view Vermilion too. It’s a clever idea.

[annarti.livejournal.com]

That's the kind of useful information that only an author is going to find useful XD Doubtless that's going to stick with me, now, too X3

[ladylight.livejournal.com]

Hoo springbok :< (I know, I'm missing the point, but ... springbok!) I do love the South African bouncy-castle varieties of fauna.

I think you missed one gender-swap at the start: The hunter whistled quietly to herself as she walked, hands in pockets, up the river away from Candlewood. The hills rolled out around him

It's very clever how Master Vermillion is a common thread linking these vignettes together. Er, yeees, I guess the title could have given that away, but I just wanted to mention that it's well done. ;) He adds a read-on little thread of mystery that doesn't require people running around in secret masks or muttering portentous things: you just want to know who the hell this fancy guy with the party is. Simple but compelling enough to move the story on.

[annarti.livejournal.com]

Fixed, thankyee my dear :D

It's an idea I'd had for AGES and finally I got onto it.

[drazzi.livejournal.com]

I've never heard of a girl with salt-and-pepper hair. I like it a lot. Its gorgeous imagery - and makes her seem like she'll anthromorphise into an African wild dog. Which we know is awesome.

I love the starting paragraphs. Its like idyic and fun, but also kind o tense and waiting. Which fits as the chapter flows along. Its like the chapter personifies the character.

Every other kingdom prized bowmen, as warriors rather than lowly hunters.
Even Tsayth?

Talking about the choice between what to shoot, again its like when you were talking about the merchant recooping losses. It makes so much sense, but its not something I would have thought of. You're so smart.

Feel bad for the older ones with these jobs. They have the skills, but they don't have the youth to do as much as they might have done once in their lifetimes. Its sad, as your work dies down and you get older and need the security of the work's money more.

I'm glad she gets a back rub. I BET HER WIFE LOVES HER SO MUCH. Hunter's just projecting guilt and misery onto her. Or maybe not. gotta be some unhappily married people in Llayad even,

[annarti.livejournal.com]

Even Tsayth! Possibly. I'll do some research on bowmen on ships and get back to you.

I love the hunter. I could write a whole story about her, I swear.