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Asryne observed his prey. They were responsible for the death of his comrades. They represented the enemy; Tyr’s words sang in his skull: for everyone one of us you see die by their hands, you tend to get it. Asryne shuddered. In truth who were they? Were they actually the assailants? No, it did not matter. Pigs did this to his friends, his mentors, and pig-blood would pay for it. Now three of them stood there, most likely villains of the former pack. A good distance- maybe twenty yards- parted the two parties, a midst shrubbery and dust. Moreover they did not see him, and that was all he needed. He had a bow, an eye and a purpose.
Like all hunters of the venemari, he awaited the pack to stray- one human at a time. By only a minute’s wait, the two taller men wavered, making their way into the stony keep behind them. Only the shorter one remained. Asryne hummed, a canny hook. Another pig for the slaughter.
Asryne took up his stance; straight and determined. In archery he was a painter. The painter pointed his bow towards the ground and placed the shaft of the arrow on the arrow window. Then he nocked the arrow against the string and strung it backwards; holding a note upon the harp that was his bow. The painter closed his eyes and allowed all thoughts to drip helplessly towards the ground. Only focus and antipathy filled that void. His eyes opened. They spotted the target. Release. The final note and brushstroke. It moved effortlessly past the lively pines, and weeping willows painting the air brown with its complexion. Then, the portrait, as if spilt upon by paint, engulfed in a darkish red.

Description

Asryne observed his prey. They were responsible for the death of his comrades. They represented the enemy; Tyr’s words sang in his skull: for everyone one of us you see die by their hands, you tend to get it. Asryne shuddered. In truth who were they? Were they actually the assailants? No, it did not matter. Pigs did this to his friends, his mentors, and pig-blood would pay for it. Now three of them stood there, most likely villains of the former pack. A good distance- maybe twenty yards- parted the two parties, a midst shrubbery and dust. Moreover they did not see him, and that was all he needed. He had a bow, an eye and a purpose.
Like all hunters of the venemari, he awaited the pack to stray- one human at a time. By only a minute’s wait, the two taller men wavered, making their way into the stony keep behind them. Only the shorter one remained. Asryne hummed, a canny hook. Another pig for the slaughter.
Asryne took up his stance; straight and determined. In archery he was a painter. The painter pointed his bow towards the ground and placed the shaft of the arrow on the arrow window. Then he nocked the arrow against the string and strung it backwards; holding a note upon the harp that was his bow. The painter closed his eyes and allowed all thoughts to drip helplessly towards the ground. Only focus and antipathy filled that void. His eyes opened. They spotted the target. Release. The final note and brushstroke. It moved effortlessly past the lively pines, and weeping willows painting the air brown with its complexion. Then, the portrait, as if spilt upon by paint, engulfed in a darkish red.