(no subject)

[worldisburning]

It's taken a while, but he knows the island like the back of his hand. He has snares set among trees were people rarely go, set back from the path and he does well off them. He's hunting with his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbow, his bow slung on his shoulder. There's a handful of good hand-made arrows in his quiver; they fly true. Checking the last of the snares, he hears a sound in the trees just distant. He doesn't see people out here.

Smoothly, without thinking about, the movement as innate as breathing or blinking, he reaches over his right shoulder for an arrow.

It's on his bow.
He waits.