Lane, a brown-haired, green-eyed boy, was crouching in the depths of the forest, staring at a three-toed paw track on a patch of muddy earth. He put his left hand on the closest print and felt his the ground wet, cold, yet firm against them. The footprint was easily the size of his head and sank at least three fingers deep on the ground with smaller marks where the claws should have landed. Fresh He thought.
A glimpse around him showed trees and bushes wearing the browns and oranges of late autumn contrasting with green and vibrant moss thriving on their trunks. While the land was not frozen, it still was getting harder with the colder winds and the increasing rains.
Without lifting his hand, Lane closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, he exhaled, letting the sounds of the forest wash over him. The buzzing of bugs mixed with chirps of birds and the occasional whisper of falling leaves to make quiet background noise.
He pictured the Grinner, his prey, walking uncontested around the forest. A reptile reaching his chest while walking on four legs and with a maw strong enough to snap him clean in halves. As dangerous as it may be, this close to winter it should be readying to sleep for the rest of the season.
For Lane, that meant this Grinner would be fatter, heavier, and slower. Perfect prey for a young man entering adulthood this winter. A perfect trophy to impress certain young missy coming of age this winter. Lane opened his eyes and licked his lips looking forward into the forest.
Traces of broken branches, disturbed leaves on the bushes, and scratches spread on the ground made a subtle, but clear path to his eyes. Lane stood up, cleaned his hand on his pants, and started following the tracks.
He was wearing worn leather boots, gray pants, and a linen shirt. From his belt, hung a sheath the size of his forearm holding a hunter’s knife. Tight across his chest, was a leather strip holding a carjack and a drinking bag. From his right shoulder hung a short wooden bow.
His father would not have approved of his attire but that only made it more appealing to Lane’s taste. His clothes had stains of dust and mud from the hunt. His bow was nowhere close to the ideal knight’s weapon. His knife could not cut through armor nor held the range of a proper sword.
In here, the middle of nowhere, none of that mattered and what would earn him scorn back in town was a perfect outfit for the hunt ahead. He moved forward without pause or sound, throwing an occasional look to the sides making sure not to lose the tracks.
Around him, the forest kept changing in a collage of trees, bushes, and stones that resembled each other to the point of being annoying.
A knight would have lost his way long ago. Lane thought with a smile.
Finally, he heard a soft rumor of flowing water and swapped to a crouching march until the tracks reached a thicker patch of bushes. He rose to peek and found himself staring at a forest clearing. The sun shining right above told him he had spent at least half a day following those tracks.
Then he saw it. The Grinner was lying still inside a creek, fifteen some meters away at the opposite end of the clearing. Its’ eyes half-closed in a squint as the water flowed lazily around it and its’ white skin shining dazzling with the midday sun.
It was a massive beast and even from the distance, Lane knew it would reach at least his height without standing on its’ hind legs. That was much more than he had bargained for; yet, Lane found himself frozen in the place.
She’d love it. He thought biting his lips. And a skin that size is not something you just buy.
And the idea of her smile was enough reason to make him move again, reaching for one arrow instead of turning away. From his pocket, Lane took a small container carved smooth from black stone.
With a twist and a click, a lid came off and Lane had to back a bit from the smell alone. Holding his breath, he sprinkled a drop on the tip of his arrow and sealed the container tight. If what the old man in the market said was true, that bit of poison could kill ranked beasts. Should Lane hit it, the Grinner lazing ahead would not stand a chance. If he failed, regardless of how tempting the skin was, Lane had no plans to stay and try his luck a second time.
In a single motion, Lane took his bow, nocked his arrow, and pulled it to the limit. Then, he took a deep breath and aimed at the eye of the Grinner. The beast was still quiet, content with sunbathing on its’ creek. Lane let the arrow go.
At times, a hunter knows if the aim is good or bad right after shooting. Reacting within seconds of the release to either run away or advance to finish the kill.
This time, Lane felt a cold breeze on his back and stood frozen in place, the hair on his arms rising as he watched the arrow fly and push away the silence with a sharp whistle.
It hit the Grinner straight through the eye and buried deep to the point he could only see the feathers on its tail. Then nothing happened.
The sun was still high on the sky, the Grinner still laid on the creek, and the water still flowed with a soft, lazy burble.
He stood there watching, but the Grinner showed no reaction.
“Hmph.” Lane grunted.
And so, he was there, completely alone, and half a day away from town watching the creek flow around a Grinner with an arrow sticking out of its eye. Lane pursed his lips and took another arrow, aimed for the other eye, and shoot once more.
This time he felt nothing else, and even as his arrow landed true to his aim, the Grinner still refused to react in any way visible. Finally, after thinking for a moment, Lane walked to the Grinner, and seeing it would not move, he poked it with his bow. It was dead.
“Well, I guess that’s it.” Lane said putting away his bow, taking a sip from his water bag, and unsheathing his knife.
I couldn't help but imagine the Grinner looking like old reconstructions of Iguanadon.