N.D. Carrothers

Armaland breathed deep as the frigid air seared its way through his nostrils and deep into his lungs. The bitingly cold air was crisp and clean, with a faint hint of pine that gave it a sweetness that deepened his hunger. One foot in front of the other, he trudged up the glistening white slope. With each step, he could feel the cold dampness work its way deeper, threatening to numb his toes in his damp fur-lined boots. This deep into a Lunar season, the snow was often packed, icy, and violently refractive of the white sun overhead. This Lunar season had been longer than any Armaland could remember.

He had been tracking a rabbit in the area for a few days. If the traps he had set up were successful, this rabbit would provide the most nourishing meal he'd had in longer than he cared to think about. His stomach growled, and his cheeks salivated at the thought of how good it would taste in a rabbit pine stew. Although that type of stew had been nearly the only thing he'd eaten over the last year, if you go long enough without food, even a stale biscuit starts to sound appetizing.

As he approached the top of the berm, a familiar tingle started to form at the nape of his neck. His hair prickled, and he could feel his heart rate increase as the feverish excitement began to overtake him. His nostrils flared, and something primal stirred behind his eyes as an animalistic fog roiled over his senses. He took a deep breath, and the cool air spread through his chest, bringing him back down. He reminded himself not to get his hopes up. Despite his desperation, he couldn't shake the nagging voice in his head that reminded him there was no tangible reason this trip would be any different than the rest. He huffed again to himself and grumbled slightly as his line of sight cleared the top of the berm.

A nauseating feeling in his stomach settled in as his eyes locked onto yet another empty trap. Frustration prickled his skin, but Armaland breathed deeply again and reminded himself that allowing that frustration to overtake him would only serve to make his situation more dire. He clenched his jaw, his upper lip curling into a snarl as he made his way down towards the trap that was nestled near a barren bush at the bottom of the knoll—his feet crunching the snow with each reluctant plod.

Kneeling as he neared the trap, Armaland inspected the surrounding area for any signs of the creature, squinting against the bright reflection of snow. Paw prints trailed around the bush. Armaland was in the right place; the clever thing simply wasn't falling for his ruse. "Kæftach." Armaland cursed under his breath as he examined the trap more closely. "Always a step ahead, aren't you?" Armaland tested and reset the trap—carefully avoiding his fingers—then relaxed his hands and took one more long look around.

For a moment, he lost himself in near serenity. The hollow howling of the mountain air, making its way across the frozen tundra, had an oddly soothing quality about it. He could feel the shivering that had plagued him all morning had eased. He hadn't even noticed when it stopped. His muscles began to loosen. The ache in his knees faded. The sharp bite at his fingertips. The gnawing hollow in his gut. All of it softening, all of it bleeding from his body into something that almost felt like warmth. Like a sponge being wrung dry, only the water was all the rawness he carried. Warmth crept up through his chest and settled behind his eyes like the first pull of a strong drink.

He lowered himself to one knee, then the other, the snow barely registering against his caps. The wind, which had been cutting at his face all day, now felt like little more than a soft kiss. He contemplated lying down right here in the sleek pile of icy snow at the bottom of a hill near an empty trap. It wouldn't be such a bad place to go. Outwitted by a rabbit wasn't exactly a badge of honor he'd want to wear proudly, but then, who would even know? Odds were likely that this far out in the middle of nowhere, his body would never even be found.

Somewhere distant, like a voice calling from the far end of a long corridor, something told him to stand. He ignored it. His eyelids dragged shut, heavy as wet leather, and the white world around him dimmed to grey and then to nothing. The last thing he was aware of was the faint sound of his own breathing growing slower, shallower, like a fire burning down to its last coal.

Armaland rasped jaggedly, his eyes snapping open again as he jolted upright. His adrenaline spiked as he realized just how close he had come to taking one final nap. Quickly, he gathered himself up and stood looking at his surroundings again. The sun was now much lower in the sky, and he could feel the cold had made its way much deeper into his garbs, making his joints ache and stiffen. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this had been the last trap for him to check. Nothing to do now but head back home.

Before beginning his trek back, Armaland reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a frail piece of buckskin parchment he had taken to charting the area around his home. With a small piece of charcoal he always kept on hand, he marked a few things he had found potentially worthwhile, such as animal signs, during his meanderings and plotted a quick route toward home. Satisfied with his findings, he carefully folded the map back into his cloak and looked up towards the top of the hill.

"You have got to be joking me." Armaland breathed, his words laden with disbelief. He blinked furiously, certain his hunger-addled brain was playing tricks on him, but sure as he was standing, there it was. At the top of the shallow berm, with a little nose wiggling furiously in his direction, was a little black rabbit. Its fur was dark as soot against the white of the hillcrest, so stark it almost didn't look real. Armaland froze in place, unsure of how quickly he might be able to move without startling the thing. Then, slowly, carefully, he began to reach behind his back toward the bow slung across his shoulders.

Before he could get anywhere near his bow, the creature jittered and dashed madly away from Armaland. The chase was on. Hurriedly, Armaland jolted toward the top of the berm, abandoning his attempt momentarily to draw his bow. He needed to see where it had gone. As he reached the top of the berm, he lifted his hand over his brow and peered out ahead of him, scanning the long shallow valley that stretched out before him—a maze of low snow drifts and scattered rock that eventually gave way to the deeper berms closer to home. His heart began to fall as he worried he'd lost sight of it, then suddenly, a wisp of…smoke?