[colour=Crimson][h1][center]Arzow Untheass[/center][/h1][/colour]

[center][i]A town off to the side of the mountain

About 2 days ago[/i][/center]

[colour=Crimson]"3-no, 4."[/colour] the forest was denser off to the left of the town name Lubos. In it, varieties of wildlife and fauna could be found - it was a miracle the place was still standing, given the amount of Witches. One would have thought there would be more who used animal blood for sacrifices and the like, and the forest still being relatively untouched was a godsend for the people who made their living hunting within it.

Arzow had stopped by a week ago; offering some service as best he could for a room and a meal each day he stayed. The tasks were mostly menial and benign tasks, but there were always some people that offered decent pay for a hunt. Considering that they weren't exactly the most picky, the hunts were - for the majority - a complete success, and with relative ease. There were, though, some... Harder, to please people; the type that wanted specific cuts of venison, or squirrel with completely undamaged meat.

[colour=Crimson]"40 metres..."[/colour] Arzow levelled the already drawn blade, it's hilt stretched out with what looked like wooden arms into what looked like a crossbow; the strings faintly glinting against the slight sunlight that penetrated the canopy. A deer stood - about 40 metres away - nibbling at the grass, and looking up ever so slightly every-so-often to survey it's surroundings. He hovered a finger in the gap of a rope loop, connected through a string to a firing mechanism on the crossbow.

Eyeing the animal with a cold stare, he began to count:
[colour=Crimson]"1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8..."[/colour] he spoke the words lightly and under his breath - adjusting the crossbow-sword ever so slightly as he did. Once he reached the number 10, the blade was firmly pointed directly at a certain area of the deers' chest. With a slight twitch of his index finger, a bolt flew cleanly and penetrated the lungs of the creature; ripping the aorta. It bucked, jumping forward and beginning to run, leaving a trail of blood behind it, before collapsing to the ground - life trickling out of it, before it simply died. He stepped out from the bush he had been hiding in and slid his blade back into the sheath which sat loosely against his side; held with only a bit of rope.

Grabbing the deer, he strapped it to a sled-like object wrapped in rope, and began to pull. It was a clean kill, which would probably get him a good price with either the barkeep or the butcher. He stopped for a second, reaching down and rubbing his finger across a splatter of blood before walking again. Then, he placed his finger into his mouth and licked it clean - his face eliciting nothing whatsoever.

[hr]

[colour=Orchid][center][h1]Wren Arzow[/h1][/center][/colour]

On the other hand, Wren wasn't doing anything of interest. He, too, was in a town a little ways from the mountain - but was in a bar instead. His last hunt had gone to shit, and to top it off his pockets were running a little dry. There were some idiots over at the bar - spending pound after shilling on some girl likely none of them knew - and he was sat there, still sober with a tankard of ale in front of him.
[colour=Orchid]"Fucking bastard Witch... I'll fucking kill you when I find you..."[/colour] his tone was a low gravelling sound, before he picked up the drink and took a large swig.

Some Hunter strolled in, and air of... Experience? Arrogance? Wren couldn't tell, but he could bet it wasn't exactly a GOOD aura, even if he was a hunter. Not that he cared, mind. He just sat - taking drink after drink - and muttering about his failed hunt.

It was going to be a long night...