Marcus
Turn the rich into wine as you walk on the mean
Marcus dropped into a crouch beside a cluster of broad-leafed plants, careful not to let a single branch snap beneath his weight. The jungle seemed louder now that they were still. Insects buzzed somewhere overhead, water dripped from leaves despite the heat, and farther away, unseen creatures rustled through the undergrowth. Every sound blended together into a living wall of noise that made picking out individual sounds more difficult than any hunt in Halo.
The sandgrouse calls drifted faintly across the clearing, enough to draw and hold tight his attention. Marcus shifted his gaze toward the water hole, letting his eyes settle rather than dart. His father had taught him long ago that prey noticed movement before shape. A hunter who constantly searched often found less than the one who waited, as the body followed the eyes. The birds were harder to spot than he'd expected, blending nearly seamlessly into the earth and scattered vegetation around the oasis. One moved and suddenly three more appeared beside it, shapes resolving from what he'd mistaken for stones and shadows moments earlier.
Marcus slowly drew an arrow from his quiver, keeping every motion deliberate. The shaft rested lightly against his bow as he studied the flock, and all around it. He tracked possible flight paths, noting the open lanes above the pond and the gaps between branches where startled birds might escape. His pulse remained steady, his breathing slow behind the charcoal-filtered bandanna. Marcus settled deeper into his crouch and fixed his attention on the clearing, patient as the hunters around him and Colt beside him. The hardest part of hunting had never been the shot.
It was knowing when not to take it. And he did -- finally.
The sandgrouse calls drifted faintly across the clearing, enough to draw and hold tight his attention. Marcus shifted his gaze toward the water hole, letting his eyes settle rather than dart. His father had taught him long ago that prey noticed movement before shape. A hunter who constantly searched often found less than the one who waited, as the body followed the eyes. The birds were harder to spot than he'd expected, blending nearly seamlessly into the earth and scattered vegetation around the oasis. One moved and suddenly three more appeared beside it, shapes resolving from what he'd mistaken for stones and shadows moments earlier.
Marcus slowly drew an arrow from his quiver, keeping every motion deliberate. The shaft rested lightly against his bow as he studied the flock, and all around it. He tracked possible flight paths, noting the open lanes above the pond and the gaps between branches where startled birds might escape. His pulse remained steady, his breathing slow behind the charcoal-filtered bandanna. Marcus settled deeper into his crouch and fixed his attention on the clearing, patient as the hunters around him and Colt beside him. The hardest part of hunting had never been the shot.
It was knowing when not to take it. And he did -- finally.
