Tahl was a good hunter, but some days even the best go hungry. This was shaping up to be one of those days.
It was already late afternoon, and his snares remained empty. The autumn air was cool and crisp beneath the trees, though the light filtering through yellow and orange leaves made the whole scene look a lot warmer. Tahl peered through the branches, looking for a tell-tale puff of hot breath condensing on the breeze, seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. The bushes rasped, but with wind, not hungry deer. His stomach growled. Not for the first time, he wished his wish magic was worth a fraction of a fart when it came to what he wanted. He was just about to swing down from his arboreal perch, hours later, when he spotted it – a two-point buck, picking its way through the thicket.
Tahl was a good shot.
He couldn’t help but strut a little, as he moved across the forest floor to where his prey had dropped. It was partly relief, of course, but also the knowledge that even without magic aiding him, he could survive. That was a question he often asked himself, when he stuck close to his fellows – without them wishing for a good hunt or fair weather, would he be able to catch a thing? Turns out he could. He smirked.
The smirk was wiped right off his face when another, most unexpected creature bounded into view, corrected course, and set upon his kill with ravenous gusto.
The thing was…what was that thing? An undead horse…bat…dragon?? Tahl’s body didn’t move, but his face did, as he tried to process the scene before him. All thought of reclaiming his dinner had fled. Now, he was just trying to figure out how to get out of there before the thing spotted him. And then, it spotted him. Its large, luminous eyes blinked at him, a little blood dribbling from its beak.
Tahl did the sensible thing and ran.
He was a good runner, fortunately, dodging roots and lashing branches, his bow and quiver fastened tightly to his back. The thing did not seem interested in pursuing him, but he wasn’t interested in slowing his pace until he was a safe distance away. When he reached the clearing, he was still at a dead run. He nearly tripped over the man resting against a tree at the meadow’s perimeter. Righting himself in a motion that could almost be described as balletic, he turned to the stranger, panting.
“Sorry! There’s a…a…over there,” he explained, gesturing back in the direction he’d come from. Then he noticed the dancing mouse skeleton, and his face fell. “Oh.”
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