Old Pavel smoked his old wooden pipe. He always did after a successful hunt.

“Another bountiful day, gentleman.” From out the deep forested bushiness of his grey beard came his voice, husky and weather-weary. Pavel wasn't much to talk, most of the experienced hunters weren't ones to talk, but when Pavel did speak, it was the voice of the forest. Older than what they knew, older than what they wondered and older than what they even dared to asked. Even Petya's father remembered Pavel with his grey beard and old wooden pipe.

“Old Pavel wasn't born,” he heard his father's voice, it was one of the few memories he had and could remember with strong recollection, the rest were faded and distorted; and his mother, Petya remembered nothing. “He was a tree and one day, he decided he wanted to walk, and thus, old Pavel came to our village.” The young Petya Vukašina took to this story as gospel, the young Petyr had always wanted to be cheeky and enquire old Pavel himself if this was true, but he had always been too scared. The young Petya also wanted to be sneaky and lift up his beard to see if he did hide bird nests underneath, but he had always been too scared.

The elder Petya Vukašina was less susceptible to these tall tales, old Pavel knew these woods better than any other living man, that much was true. He knew the animals and their calls, their tracks, right even down to their scent on the cool wind. But he had been no tree. Still, the elder Petya Vukašina was still too unwilling to ask him if the old man was indeed a tree, even in jest.

“And you, lad, you're turning into quite the archer.” The hunt had produced eight rabbits and four deer, a small in contrast to what they could usually track down, but the village was already stocked with an adequate amount and this would be the last hunt until the next full moon. The largest of the females attached to sled had been Petya's kill. It had, admittedly, been an easy kill. She had been grazing in the open and the wind was against her, Petya had been perched upon a tree and so all he had to do was wait. It had been a clean kill, a quick kill. She fell instantly, the arrow finding its resting place beyond the creature's left ear, following deep into the cranium.

Most hunters talk of aiming for the heart and lungs, a perfectly viable option but deers didn't always go down immediately and the last thing a hunter wanted was a wounded deer running through the forest panicking and spooking the other deer and animals. A head shot provided the perfect opportunity to drop the animal where it stood with very little meat last in the process. The downside was being good enough to hit a target so small.

“Here, lad.” old Pavel offered his old wooden pipe, Petya had memories of the first time he had accepted an offer from old Pavel to take a smoke from his pipe after he had made his first kill. A mixture of herbs and charcoal, It was a strong taste that caused him to wince and retreat from this oddity that lingered in his mouth. Out of respect, Petya accepted. The taste, still the same. This time, however, he did a finer job to stop himself from recoiling from the taste and sputter the smoke back up. “Thank you,” Petya said, though his face betrayed his true thoughts. Old Pavel laughed. “You will get used to it lad. Trust me.” The old man gave a strong squeeze on his shoulder, “Come, let us set for the village. The hour grows late and a storm approaches.”

The village had not been too far from their hunting grounds, but the sudden onset of snow had made their trek seem more daunting. They had always been used to the snow, it was his people's way to survive the harshest of conditions, but this storm bought with it an anger. 

“[i]Fignya,[/i]” one of the hunters in the party tripped, and rose amidst a flurry of white dotting his fur coating. He cursed once as he steadied himself, and cursed again, aiming his colourful insults directed at the storm overhead. The more they walked, the heavier the snow became, the more worn their legs grew. Petya breathed through panted breaths. If he could see his face, he'd no doubt be red faced. They had been in storms before, it had snowed heavily before but never like this. “Should we had not seen the lights of the village by now?” One hunter shouted from the back. They had lost track of time an hour or so ago, the sun had been low in the sky when they set off but they had always returned in time before the moon dawned in full glory. The storm had blanketed the sky in a grim shade of grey and soon it was dark, unable to tell if the night had came or if the storm had robbed them of the last remaining light. But they had made this journey several times before, even if they could not fully make out their surroundings, instinct told them they would reach home soon. Petya thought of his niece for a momentary second, he saw her sat before a fire and he heard of voice, “What animals did you see today, [i]dyadya?[/i]” He would certainly see a lot of animals running around in the forests, deers, bucks, rabbits and hares, winter foxes and sometimes when he ventured near to the rivers, he'd see otters. She asked on more than one occasion if she could accompany him on his hunts, her eyes full of wonder and hope, “When you're older,” he would always tell her, something he always heard as a child. In what he didn't understand back in his youth, he understood now. In her admiration for the small critters of the woods, the last thing he wanted to introduce little Antonina to was the carcass of a fresh hunt.

His thoughts turned to his brother; it was odd, it was a worried thought. Petya didn't worry too much for his brother, he didn't feel he had to, he had Antonina, never ventured into danger. Certainly, Vasily would worry over Petya. His brother had long hoped Petya would find a love for the art of carpentry, however, it had been the craftsmanship of the bow that led Petya to take up the art of hunting. much to his brother's vexation. But here, as he marched through the pitch blackness before him and an unending pile of white below, Petya found himself worrying about his brother.

“Lights!” Dmitri, the hunter who found himself face first within the snow earlier, exclaimed – followed by a collected sigh amongst the gathering of hunters and an exchange of easy laughter as the comforting sight of their village, their home, lay within reach. Their comfort did not last long as a wave of fear crashed over them.

Petya saw it, all the hunters had saw it. To be a hunter, to spend hours embedded deep in the woods, amongst the trees and the bushes, you attune yourself to both look and listen better than most. You breath slowly and you linked with the world around you and all must survive on is your sense. A hunter's sight rarely lied, yet, before them. Shadows moved.

And the world screamed.

It seemed all too natural, in hand and arrow ready to notch; Petya had readied himself, as did many of the other hunters. “What is this?” some muttered, Petya, like the others, had no words to say. They simply watched as shadows trickled down into the village and listened as shrieks flew on the wind. Eyes turned to old Pavel.

“Get to the village,” he told them and stupid they all felt. The old man was dumbfounded that they would even need to seek his wisdom on the matter. He had already galloped several meters ahead before the others even began to make headway through the snow and the storm, Petya watched old Pavel as he seemed to glide over the snow where the other's struggled and tripped, picked themselves up and would struggle and trip once more. The hunt had been left behind.

The hunters arrived home amidst a great fear and to face an enemy unsure as to whom it would be. “Find your families.” Old Pavel ordered, “your arrows and blades will do no good here.”

Vasily, the voice in his mind; “Vasily!” He called out.

The village had never felt as large as it did this night, he dashed, bow still in hand and arrow ready – despite old Pavel's advice – he dashed looking for what remained of his family. The cries and screams grew louder and the shadows began to ate all light, he passed faces he knew as they ran in the opposite direction, etched blurred faces of fear took hold inside of him as Petya ran onwards towards the darkness.

“Vasily!” Petya, almost silently, expressed. “Vasily!” This time crying out to his elder brother. Had Petya been strong enough, he would of carried both his brother and who he discovered in his arms to be blind Nadeen. Petya asked no questions, but followed. Relived that his brother was safe.

Questions would come later.