It was dark, a seeping unnatural black with the air so thick it is hard to breathe. The Warg trotted through the brush sniffing here and there following a track he took up, growling with hunger. The dried up rotten grass underneath his feet made the slightest sound as he climbed the slope. The bowstring tightened; just a few more feet...
The beast growled its dirty yellow eyes narrowing as it started to howl, the sound stuck in its throat as the arrow pierced straight through its neck. She smiled and lowered her bow. Another fur for the garrison. And sinew. Winter would come, here earlier than elsewhere, And when it did, it would be time to move south. Time to reappear.
The woman stood her bow slung over her back, retrieved a knife with a small bird engraved upon its hilt and regarded it thoughtfully. The Sparrow on it had died long ago. Would the face call forward recognition without its old name? Was there anyone still alive to remember?
