Choice

[Miles]

The old trapper sets his lines expertly, long years of experience having made the delicate task routine. His gnarled hands are strong, still capable of reaping the land’s bounty. Deepening shadows accompany the evening birdsong, and the trapper stops in his work for a moment to wet his throat from a skin of ale.

He had not meant to be so deep in the woods this late, but in these times, if one wished to catch more than the standard fare of deer and wild dogs, it was known that the verdant confine of the Rystall was the place to go.

An ancient forest, the Rystall, or Border was known to be dangerous, full of things untamed by the hand of man. Why, if the trapper was in Tymora’s favor, he might catch a manticore… or even something fey. Such exotics could fetch a fair price from the merchants that plied the Black Road.

Corking the ale-skin, the trapper begins to pack his things. Such thoughts of tomorrow’s bounty are better thought in safety; for now he still has a forest to traverse. A moment to pull on his pack, and he’s ready. The shrill cry of a night bird causes the woodsman to raise his weather-beaten face to the sky where, like an illuminated map, the stars shine brightly enough to lead him home.

So dark, dark indeed. Flint and tinder bear spark, and quickly the old man lights his lantern. The towering pines seem closer now; the lantern’s dancing flame casting errant shadows that give life to their writhing limbs. He turns South, feet sure on the loamy ground, careful to avoid the traps he has so carefully placed.

One look over his shoulder, an action that has saved his life many times before. There, out of the corner of his eye, something moved. Slowly, carefully, his keen eyes survey all that is in the light of his lamp. Again, movement. His pulse quickens…perhaps tomorrow’s catch will come today? Careful again, wary lest he set off the many, dangerous traps, he steps toward the movement, only to find his snare tangled, but empty. Disappointed and more than a little unnerved, he moves in the direction of home.

Again, he turns. Two shapes, shadows cast against the trees, move steadily in his direction. He calls to them, a question, a threat, hoping to lure them through his lines. They take shape; long legs, powerful bodies, two wolves, he realizes. Silent, he watches them move, waiting for the dreadful screech of the steel jaws he has so carefully placed. Too slowly he notices what had escaped him before…the wolves are avoiding the traps, slipping through the lines like wraiths.

Fear overwhelms him, and he runs.

Gear tumbles onto the ground as the trapper drops his pack. Lantern held high, he races through the trees. A wolf to his rear makes its mournful cry. Others answer, behind, in front, to the sides; the pack comes ever closer. The man’s way is blocked, lithe, shaggy forms cutting him off from the road that is so near. He turns, running uphill now, his legs burning under the strain.

Abruptly the hillside disappears before him, a well placed tree saving him from tumbling over the edge. His lantern falls, shattering far below. Darkness comes abruptly, its arrival a weight in which he can feel his impending death.

Two wolves, the two wolves appear, moving effortlessly up the slope, as though propelled by the same darkling stream that has carried him to this end. Their great yellow eyes regard him with a baleful stare, yet they do no more. They are close enough for him to feel their heat, see the craggy, bony back and shoulders of one, the great power and sleek muscles of the other. A jaw opens, snaps shut as a trap might. The old wolf barks, then takes an impatient step.

A choice, the trapper knows, and an easy one. The fall is long, the man’s spirit fled before his body comes to rest.

The wolves wait a moment, luminous eyes regarding the demise of yet another trespasser, then with long, loping strides, melt back into the darkness.

They leave their trees this night, and by day-break their tireless legs have taken them far. The wolves of the Rystall go to Cormanthor, may the Wild One shade their path.

[bizmiz]

Great job Miles. Very IC.

[Mizbiz]

Beautifully lived, my brother.

[PensivesWetness]

Beautifully lived, my brother.

Is he retired? was he one of those wolves?

meh, what ever, still i liked it