Ardo's Boar Tarsk Stalk

Great coniferous trees bent and creaked as the winter winds explored their frozen boughs, some heavy with snow glistened beautifully in the fading twilight.

Ardo's feet fought for balance on an icy mound as he stalked a boar tarsk. He was tired and hungry and he was getting colder, despite the thick snow sleen fur in which he was clad. The search for prey had been long and fruitless until he eventually caught sight of a boar tarsk in his peripheral vision; the movement of the tarsk betraying its presence. He had picked up the spoor at a water hole, at the foot of a waterfall where the water was fresh and clean; Ardo's favourite place for finding fresh animal tracks.

Ardo preferred to hunt alone, without sleens or other men; he enjoyed the solitude and he was prepared to accept the risks to be alone in the great wilderness of the Torvaldsland, pitting himself against the savage beauty of nature. It was in this place, and in these trying circumstances, where he truly felt alive. He inhaled deeply of the cold bracing air, drawing his power from the very elements opposing him.

The stalk had taken him the best part of of the afternoon, and now the light was beginning to fade. Several recent unsuccessful hunts had left him despondent, despairing for the welfare of the village should he be unsuccessful again. He couldn't afford to lose this vital source of protein and fat, so he steeled himself and pricked his senses for the kill. 

He moved with uncanny grace for such a tall man; he had been a warrior and an athlete in his youth, proud and keen to constantly better his physical prowess. Too many battle wounds had slowed him somewhat, but he still had the physical discipline and stamina of a fighter that now served him well as a hunter. Ardo moved slowly, down wind of the foraging boar, choosing each footfall carefully and silently; closing the distance between him and his quarry. 

Ardo slid an arrow from his quiver, knocked it to the larl gut string of his longbow, and held it ready to draw. His face was the very essence of focus, his green eyes unblinking. The boar was grunting happily, his snout buried in the soil and snow, delving for some subterranean morsel. Ardo closed swiftly and silently to within effective range of his longbow and drew back. He held his breath for a count, then loosed the arrow. He had chosen guelder rose wood for the shaft and gull feather for the fletching, taking great care in the manufacture of each deadly missile; the result was an arrow that loosed without a tell-tale twang, and flew swiftly and accurately to its target.

The arrow struck the boar tarsk in the neck, just behind the eyes. The hapless beast leapt in the air for a brief moment and stiffened, but it was dead before it hit the ground. Ardo called, "Yesssss!" and muttered a prayer of thanks to Ullr for guiding his arrow. Ardo closed on the now inert prey; he was a magnificent specimen, and a tinge of sadness and remorse came over Ardo, as it often did at the site of a kill. He muttered more prayers to Ullr and to the soul of the tarsk, thanking it for its life now forfeit. 

Ardo struggled to lift the heavy beast to his shoulders, and used strips of cloth to secure it, before commencing the long, perilous and arduous trudge home.