Connwear

For a week she had tried to learn how to hunt with her bare hands and a knife. In contrast to some of her tribesmen, she didn’t believe in trapping. She didn’t like the idea of imprisoning the animal before the kill. The kill had to be clean and swift. The animal should die as a free being, allowed to bolt away or fight back. When using traps, such was not possible. The challenge was the whole point of hunting, with traps there were no challenge, no race.

After wrestling with a spirit, Vaalea made her way to the Prancing Pony. Her normally clean boots were mud-caked for running in the swamps, she had many twigs pointing out of her messy hair and there were large bite marks on her throat that were still bleeding. Yet she didn’t seem to mind any of this while she strode through the town. By the time she arrived at the tavern she was so irritated by her ordeals, that her conversation with poor Bjorstein who just happened to stand there, consisted mostly of wordless snarling.