The heavy air strained the hunter’s lungs as he trudged through the soaked marshes
east of Bree-town. The Midgewater’s ground seemed to suck at his already heavy
boots and, with each stride, more sweat broke out on his ruddy face. Cattails and
reeds flourished here on the banks of the shallow pools that lay splattered across the
marshland. The strange sounds of cormorants up in the old alder trees and the low,
booming calls of bitterns hidden in the reeds would speak to any traveler’s
imagination and perhaps give rise to superstition. But to the seasoned, hardy folk that
made their living in the lands surrounding Bree-town, they were all too familiar. The
large, heavily built trapper slowly made his way through the seemingly impassable
overgrowth of fallen willows and deviously sharp, broken reeds, sedges, and rush. He
seemed not to be in any sort of rush himself, quietly accepting the toilsome path - or
lack thereof. Behind his heavy-set black eyebrows, and framed by his equally black
hair and unkempt beard, two piercing blue eyes expertly peered around the wet
ground for any sign of his prize. He wore a small burlap sack over his shoulders, in
which he had gathered some spotted eggs - likely lapwing eggs he’d collected in the
wet fields near the marshes. Every so often, the man would glance up at the grey
skies at the sounds of herons and geese descending into the marshes. Where most
hunters would avoid the Midgewater altogether, Flent saw a place full of natural
bounties and knew how to use them.
Known around Bree-town as ‘Boots’ - for the ever-lingering marshland stench that
clung to his waders, and the fact that he always carried a second pair of boots on his
backpack - he was often considered an odd appearance. Albeit a respected one, for
his knowledge of the plants and animals that lived around the marshes was
extensive. Over the past decades, he had mastered the craft of trapping, stalking,
and foraging around the Midgewater - and sustainably so. He knew of the migrations
of many a bird, of the flowering and harvesting times of dozens of edible and useful
plants that thrived in the rich and wet conditions of the marshes. He was, despite his
imposing appearance, a soft-hearted fellow with a deep love and understanding of
the wildlife that lived around these parts.
Boots, or rather Flent, as his mother had named him, had fashioned for himself a few
reed shacks around the marshes. Places where he could rest and dry his socks and,
naturally, his boots. Though inconspicuous, as to not alarm the birds that called this
place home.
The springtime sun rose against the grey sky, its rays ever growing in their potency
as the days grew longer and warmer. The burly trapper kept his steady pace, every
now and then sinking deep into layers of a decaying peat pocket. He kept his footing
with the aid of a sturdy walking stick, using it also to brush away any thorny shrubs
he came across. Some would say the amount of hair on the man’s head gave him a
natural relief from the number of midges that sought their way to a juicy meal as
he fought his slow battle through the bog.
He had spent the night out in the Midgewater in one of his shacks, giving him an
edge on the waterfowl he preyed on during the early hours of daylight. From his
backpack dangled a few drake mallards he’d caught in his nets at dawn. The hens he
let free, true to the practical idea that a hen would lay more eggs - for him to
eventually prey on as they would grow up to become more drakes. If he saw a drake
and hen with ducklings, it would never cross Flent’s mind to catch them. Perhaps his
soft spot inadvertently gave rise to the fact that this way, he wouldn’t overhunt the
animals. He didn’t think on it. He’d caught enough for the day and now had only one
thing in mind: a dry, comfortable bed and a large mug of ale. On days like these, he
dearly missed his old, stubborn water dog. Lambchop, he called him - only the Wain
knew why. A tear jerked at his eye as he reminisced about his former companion,
and the buffalo of a man woke himself from the walking stupor with a drink from his
wineskin. “Heavens be good on him,” he muttered painfully, almost seeing the
Midgewater’s edge.
On the shrubby, outer layer of the forest and where the marshes made way for a
herbaceous, grassy borderland, Flent couldn’t help but notice a small gathering.
Three figures sat huddled around what appeared to be a fresh kill. They were
handling the game with quick, dexterous cuts, looking over their shoulders as though
they might be watched. Boots felt an anger rising in his chest, nearly betraying his
presence as he cursed beneath his labored breathing. Those men were poaching -
he knew not their faces, and by the Wain did he know practically every hunter around
Bree-land.
He had spent enough time in the marshes to be able to move as quietly as possible.
Like a shadow, he slipped behind the thick undergrowth and dropped into a squat.
The three poachers, unaware of his presence, continued to split the deer with quick,
practiced motions. A slight rustle behind them made one of the men glance over his
shoulder, alarmed. Flent had snapped a dry twig beneath his mud-caked boot. The
others froze now as well, listening but seeing naught. Their nerves began to fray.
Then, a low groan echoed through the mist - an expertly crafted sound of a boar; he
truly did spend a lot of time around these animals.
“Curses, did you hear that?” one of the men whispered.
“Yes! We did, silence!” another hissed.
“That’s a boar,” confirmed the third softly.
Flent’s heart raced in his chest, and he struggled to stay put with all the midges
sinking into his skin. He forced himself to the deep, guttural growl again. Another
rumble, and then he moved. A crashing sound as though something large was
moving through the underbrush. Well, it was large, but not quite as the poachers
expected.
Now panicked, the three men scrambled to their feet, frantically looking at one
another and picking up their knives. “I’m not getting run through by a bristlehide
today!” one snarled before twisting around and bolting off into the forest’s edge. The
others followed - and the large, now grinning hunter emerged from the reeds.
When he stood over the fresh kill, his face twisted with anger once more. His eyes
followed the trail of blood the roe deer had lost in its attempt to escape the poachers.
He groaned, kneeling down beside the doe with a grim look on his grizzled face. Just
as he spoke a quiet word of prayer to the deceased animal, the sharp voice of a
stranger cut through his thoughts like the sudden rush of cold water.
“Oi! Boots! You’re nibbling off my grounds now?” the voice behind him said. Suddenly
all too familiar; the voice of Cresslow, a fellow huntsman having his grounds in
southern Chetwood.
“It wasn’t me!” Flent jumped to his feet, turning around to face the red-haired face of
Cresslow. The kind of face that looked like it had been slapped often, and never
without cause.
“Funny, Boots. Find you skulking around a fresh kill and not a single soul in sight,” the
man said suspiciously.
To Flent, Cresslow’s beady eyes sat too close together, like they were ever
conspiring. Wulfric Cresslow stood, arms folded in the clearing, one boot planted
confidently forward and wearing that ever-present obnoxious smirk like a badge of
honor. Though, like his eyes, his mouth too sat awkwardly on his face - like a long,
sour thing shadowed by a crooked nose that would earn him the nickname ‘Curlew’
after the curved beak of the likewise-named bird.
“Curlew Cresslow…” Flent muttered bemusedly. He was not one to bully others, but
Cresslow made it near impossible not to.
“What’s that?” Cresslow snarled.
“I would never touch your hunting grounds and you know it. Also, I don’t hunt does -
especially not in springtime. They are heavy with fawn now, look at her belly.” Flent
spoke, his voice breaking ever so slightly at the unease of this kind of kill.
“You always turn up when you ain’t been called, don’t you, Boots?” he said, allowing
for the nickname to hang for a foul moment. “Lurkin’ around your marsh like a bloody
ghost with a bad stench. Folks talk, you see. Say you spend more time crawling
around that inhospitable cesspit of a bog than among your own kind. Makes one
wonder, eh…”
“Wonder what?” Flent spoke fast and darkly, now angered by the accusations.
“What you’re really after…”
There was no jest in his tone any longer, just the kind of lowborn suspicion that he
kept reserved for those he hated most.
Despite the rising anger, Flent did not give in to the bait. The words drifted off like the
mist over the marshes. The large hunter now locked his cold blue eyes on the small
man before him - the same eyes that had faced worse in the wilds. Then he stepped
forward, slowly and deliberately. He crouched down beside the doe’s remains and,
with the tip of his walking stick, nudged a muddy bootprint in the soft, wet soil nearby.
“A bit light for my … boots, hm?” he said.
The ginger man scowled but did not answer.
“The marks here…” Flent continued, tracing several clean cuts across the doe’s
flank. “Not mine neither. You ever see me butchering with a bloody wrist like I’m
picking dandelions?”
He stood, tall, and slung the burlap sack over his shoulder, the drakes still swinging
from the other backpack on his back. “They scattered south, those poachers. If you
hurry, you might catch them. Don’t let me keep you up.”
Cresslow’s sour lips curled, but he still kept silent. His pride had always been a very
poor match for stone-hard proof.
Without a further word, Flent turned around - his heavy boots squelching through the
mossy fringe of the marsh. The forest mantle loomed ahead and he could feel a
righteous smile tug at his bristly lips as he saw the beautifully fresh green alder trees
greeting him ahead. He knew every little path that twisted through these forests -
every low dip where the ground turned secret and soft with moss.
As the morning made way for noon, the rays of springtime sun danced through the
rich canopy of Chetwood Forest, with the blessing of the Wain warming the already
quite heated hunter’s neck. But his pace was easy still. He had the time. Chaffinches
and chiffchaffs sang their April songs, and the incredible rolling sounds of little wrens
filled the forest air as little grey and brown balls of feather shot around the hawthorns
that grew in the open, sunny areas in the forest. A satisfied smile sat comfortably on
the hunter’s weathered face, and the thought of Iris’ cool ale waiting for him in the
Mess Hall. Far behind him now, surely, Wulfric was still standing there - chewing on
the bitter taste of being bested.
