He wished the arrow had hit more true; quick, keen, without too much folly or anguish. But they’d been shoddy, not his best efforts, hastily made because he wanted to ensure some meat on the table. The soldier frowned slightly as he watched the doe falter, staggering before falling, collapsing against the earth, one more sacrifice in the series of slaughters and offerings they persisted and devoured each and every day. He waited a few moments, still crouched in hunting position, waiting for the finality to descend or for the woman to gasp, to cry out; but the latter doesn’t happen, and the former faded away into the ether.
The Reaper rose and walked along the field towards the deceased beast, hunkering down when he arrived at its side. In his childhood, he might’ve uttered some solemn vows or prayers, thanks towards the deer, but now he understood the weight of words and worth, and simply pledged to find a use for every single portion of its frame; nothing gone to waste. The hide could be used for clothing, the bones for weapons or tools, and the meat would be for sustenance. However, he had no intention of dressing the deer here, out in the open, where the scavengers would soon start hovering, hoping for opportunity. It would be best done near his home, already close to the outskirts.
He lifted the deer over his shoulders, felt its weight linger down his broad back – like days before, carrying his comrades, collapsed against his figure from a fatal blow. His eyes flickered briefly to see if the woman was still there – a watcher, a witness – and what she intended to do, for he began a march, a bit slower, towards the settlements. “If you want some,” and here, he snickered, smirked, a smidgen, good humor sparking in the oddest moments, “you best come and help.”
