and i'm not keeping up
I can’t help the grin that slips out, and I nod once, eyes catching a spark at “lead the way.” I’ve never led a hunt before. He doesn’t need to know that. He’s a handsome man—clean lines, soldier-steady, easily twice my age—and he listens like he means it.
I keep my voice low and simple, laying it out fast, like my dad always did, “We’ll skirt the lee of the drift—stay low, slow steps. Wind’s on our side, so scent will carry behind us. Signals: flat palm means freeze, two fingers means target, and when I stand—loose.” I tip my head toward the slope. “I’ll point the one I want and you pick yours.”
We crawl up the drift until we can just peek the top. The herd is a scatter of pale shapes stitched into glare, antlers throwing thin light. I angle a gloved finger toward a small luxere, just over the size of a yearling. “That one’s mine.” I shrug. ”All I can hope to transport. Cause, well, look at me.” I give the faintest shake of my “noodle” arms under all these layers and bite back a laugh. I make myself a little more serious with a clear of my throat instead. Then a quick nod. “Let's get into position.”
I ghost to my mark and hunker down. Bow comes up. String tight. Breath narrow. I stay on the smallest glow-crowned body, counting heartbeats. A short glance to the stranger—set, ready—and then I rise in one smooth motion, our signal, and loose.
The herd explodes into thunder. My arrow lands but… I see the fletching quiver from the soft spot between it’s shoulder and chest—what should have killed it, but it clumsily bolts. Cold spikes my gut. Shit. The arrow didn’t strike deep enough, not enough power. I kick over the ridge, sliding half the slope on my hip. Another arrow nocked, draw biting my fingers, release—throat this time. The luxere stumbles and folds.
Knife out, I sprint without thinking, cutting toward the fallen shape even as the rest of the herd hammers past. “I’ve got it—finishing,” I throw over my shoulder, more breath than words. Whatever my arms weren’t strong enough to do the first time, I won’t let it suffer for.
I keep my voice low and simple, laying it out fast, like my dad always did, “We’ll skirt the lee of the drift—stay low, slow steps. Wind’s on our side, so scent will carry behind us. Signals: flat palm means freeze, two fingers means target, and when I stand—loose.” I tip my head toward the slope. “I’ll point the one I want and you pick yours.”
We crawl up the drift until we can just peek the top. The herd is a scatter of pale shapes stitched into glare, antlers throwing thin light. I angle a gloved finger toward a small luxere, just over the size of a yearling. “That one’s mine.” I shrug. ”All I can hope to transport. Cause, well, look at me.” I give the faintest shake of my “noodle” arms under all these layers and bite back a laugh. I make myself a little more serious with a clear of my throat instead. Then a quick nod. “Let's get into position.”
I ghost to my mark and hunker down. Bow comes up. String tight. Breath narrow. I stay on the smallest glow-crowned body, counting heartbeats. A short glance to the stranger—set, ready—and then I rise in one smooth motion, our signal, and loose.
The herd explodes into thunder. My arrow lands but… I see the fletching quiver from the soft spot between it’s shoulder and chest—what should have killed it, but it clumsily bolts. Cold spikes my gut. Shit. The arrow didn’t strike deep enough, not enough power. I kick over the ridge, sliding half the slope on my hip. Another arrow nocked, draw biting my fingers, release—throat this time. The luxere stumbles and folds.
Knife out, I sprint without thinking, cutting toward the fallen shape even as the rest of the herd hammers past. “I’ve got it—finishing,” I throw over my shoulder, more breath than words. Whatever my arms weren’t strong enough to do the first time, I won’t let it suffer for.
the strength i need to push me
Theea
