He had left Ezekiel early that morning, before the sun rose and the world even hinted at giving them warmth, to move toward the mountains. For a few weeks now he had been scouting at the base of the Fangs, trying to move with a small cluster of luxere. Noah held the promise of flowerbirth in his heart, leaning on what he had learned from his father. Throughout most of the previous season the pair of brothers had only had ningo and small rations of potatoes and other tubers to fill their bellies. Despite the skill the two brothers shared for finding, killing, and bringing home game, the world and the winter had been unkind to them. It did not kill the hope, the desire, nor the thrill of the hunt in Noah's breast. It seemed that growing up in the frozen wasteland had developed a steadfast hope in him -- or, perhaps, his mother had worked that in before her death.
Today, however, hope was not enough. The sun was just past midday now, thick clouds moving across the sky. Noah had been on the hunt for hours. At one point -- just after the hint of light on daybreak -- he had seen one of the elusive deer creatures. He had lifted his bow up, arrow notched and ready, but the wind shifted. Without cause and without hesitation, Halo changed. While he had been downwind of the luxere upon sight, as the wind shifted it took merely seconds for the deer to scent the man. Noah did not even have time to attempt to shoot -- the deer lifted its head, cocked its ears, and bounded away. Noah sat, anger bubbling in his chest, for a long while, cursing under his breath. Perhaps Ezekiel would hold more luck tomorrow.
Looking to the sky, the blond man knew he needed to head back towards Snowcloak. He had no desire to be out after dark. Descending carefully from the small altitude he had climbed, the hunter -- though lacking in prey -- moved toward home.
