Sierra Nevada/Lake Tahoe/Lower Montane Forest - Modern Day - Earth

Each day begins with the hunt. No hunt is the same; new leaves decaying on the forest floor, a fresh set of tracks, a stream running lower or higher, a world that changes every day, a world that will leave behind the huntsmen who cannot change with her. Sven first wakes well before the birds first chirp, dressing in nothing more than a pair of boots, pants, and a white shirt, the latter two having been hung to dry before he had retired to his home to do what he once had an army of men for. Once he was dressed he went about starting a fire to warm the stew which was more a broth with bits of venison, potatoes, and carrots which happened to be floating about in the same pot. The hunter would sit tight to the fire, both to warm himself for what was to come and to hide away the scent of man which the wildlife was so keen on avoiding any scent not birthed from nature herself. 

From Sven's lips would spill the hymns of his people, a tone low and rounded, carrying through the silent sleeping wood like the babbling of the streams and the rustling of branches in the winter breeze. He sings the song of a people never meant for this world in a tongue that twists and turns in ways no human could dream to mimic. He sings to the audience of birds who soon will chip the melodies from the branches once the sun crawls up from beyond the mountaintop, and soon Sven will take his leave into the woods carrying only what must weigh him down.

A bow of oak with a string of sinew rest on Sven's shoulder, a sling of tanned leather keeping safe a handful of arrows from the same wood his bow was whittled whose heads were made of sharpened obsidian, and an ax which has kept to his side since he was but a boy act as Sven's company as he sets out once more in search of whatever the earth mother shall gift him. He could smell her gift in the air and already longed for what was to come, a hunt worthy of an Asgardian. He set off that morning at the song of the birds, his belly filled with the last of his stew, and his eye searching the sleeping wood for signs of what he was to hunt today.

Sven drifted through the wood with deft step, taking moments to hunt for the latest sign of his mark. Gashes fresh set in bark, droppings still pulsating heat, leaves pressed deep into the dirt, prints wide and befitting of the beast he was in pursuit of. Large round paws, much larger than that of any man with curved claws that left deep prints on the moist woodland soil. Sven stepped slowly and calmly at first wind of the black bear, his pace growing to that of a crawl at the sight of the beast. It, in its might, stood taller than any man, lost in a sea of ecstasy as its back grinded against bark, gratified groans rumbling from its wide throat. The beast in its final moment would be robbed of whatever peace it now felt as Sven slowly drew an arrow and took aim, his breathing slowing until his heart pounded in his ears.

The arrow flew free as his lips parted for air, the Asgardian saying in a definitive voice, "I, Odin, king of Asgard, give you my thanks for giving so that I may take." The bear dropped with a whimper as life departed her, the arrow doing a fine job entering the exposed neck and making peace with her spinal column. Odin would be sure to use all of her properly and make a burial of her heart, the last respect he could pay to the beast who would give him food, warmth, and whatever those at the resort could make of her.

She would be put onto a cart and drawn back to the cabin where she would then be skinned and properly butchered, what Sven needed for the week to be left in his icebox, while the rest would be wrapped in paper and packed onto the sled. The skin would be left to dry by the river where he would take care of upon his return and with that Sven, the one-eyed mountain man would take his leave from the depths of the wood to the very edge of civilisation, the closest he ever felt comfortable to going.

Sven was a welcome sight to those who labored at the resort and those that were not familiar with the man tended to avoid him. He stood a foot well above the average man, a beard of rust and a head of hair to match, an eye patch hiding the pit where once an eye made home, and an ax dangling by his side as behind him he dragged a sled packed with fresh meat. A man who looked to have more in common with the beast he hunted than the men he sold the meat to. At the door to the lodge Sven dropped the rope and took his time fishing a pipe carved from bone, which he patiently filled and lit, allowing his dear friends the time they needed to come out and greet him. At a glance at the clock on a nearby wall he was ten minutes shy of his usual 9a.m. arrival time, but then again he always was one for punctuality.