4/26/2025, 1:37 PM
aw! <3
Base hunter skill!
The hour was brittle with cold, when the sun barely limped across the rim of the sky; a late afternoon sunk in pearled mist and whispering frost. Astier moved through the woods as a revenant stirred from sleep, each step muted by the heavy quilt of snow underfoot. The glass canopy loomed around him, silver-cloaked willows bowed low like mourners, and ancient oaks clawed toward the mist, their limbs armored in ice. It was a land both slumbering and keen-eyed, beautiful in silence, where even the wind dared not raise its voice too loud.
The Wraith, as the distant mountains had once named him, lowered his head to scent the frozen air. Sharp and pure, the cold stung his nostrils. But there: underneath the clean bite of winter, the unmistakable musk of caribou, strong and wild. Astier's silver gaze lifted, following the invisible thread.Through a break in the frost-heavy willows, he glimpsed them: a herd, moving like a living river across the snow-blanketed clearing. Massive shoulders heaving, steaming breath rising in short clouds, the caribou pawed at the icy earth in search of some withered grass, unaware of the phantom that watched from the trees. Instinct prickled like a slow fire in his limbs.
He pressed forward, silent as a snowfall, every movement measured, a ghost weaving through the white-drenched thickets. Each shift of his muscles melted into the landscape; the only sign of him was the faint glint of his silver eyes between the branches. His hunger was not yet desperate, but he would not waste this chance.
One of them, an older buck, lagging at the herd’s edge, heavy with the wear of many winters, caught his attention. Astier’s body lowered almost imperceptibly, a breath merging with the mist, the slow gathering of cold purpose. He would strike not with fury, but with certainty. A shadow drawn from the marrow of the mountain, and when he rose from the ground, the silver wood itself would rise with him.
Base hunter skill!
The hour was brittle with cold, when the sun barely limped across the rim of the sky; a late afternoon sunk in pearled mist and whispering frost. Astier moved through the woods as a revenant stirred from sleep, each step muted by the heavy quilt of snow underfoot. The glass canopy loomed around him, silver-cloaked willows bowed low like mourners, and ancient oaks clawed toward the mist, their limbs armored in ice. It was a land both slumbering and keen-eyed, beautiful in silence, where even the wind dared not raise its voice too loud.
The Wraith, as the distant mountains had once named him, lowered his head to scent the frozen air. Sharp and pure, the cold stung his nostrils. But there: underneath the clean bite of winter, the unmistakable musk of caribou, strong and wild. Astier's silver gaze lifted, following the invisible thread.Through a break in the frost-heavy willows, he glimpsed them: a herd, moving like a living river across the snow-blanketed clearing. Massive shoulders heaving, steaming breath rising in short clouds, the caribou pawed at the icy earth in search of some withered grass, unaware of the phantom that watched from the trees. Instinct prickled like a slow fire in his limbs.
He pressed forward, silent as a snowfall, every movement measured, a ghost weaving through the white-drenched thickets. Each shift of his muscles melted into the landscape; the only sign of him was the faint glint of his silver eyes between the branches. His hunger was not yet desperate, but he would not waste this chance.
One of them, an older buck, lagging at the herd’s edge, heavy with the wear of many winters, caught his attention. Astier’s body lowered almost imperceptibly, a breath merging with the mist, the slow gathering of cold purpose. He would strike not with fury, but with certainty. A shadow drawn from the marrow of the mountain, and when he rose from the ground, the silver wood itself would rise with him.