“Crow, look at that,” my father whispered. “It’s called a Troll’s Fang! That’s where we can find truffles after it rains a lot.”

“Looks like he’s fallen asleep again there, Krig,” a man said. “Doesn’t look like he’ll wake for anything less than a trumpet. He’s his father’s son alright!”

My eyes cracked open slowly, easing into the harsh light. Had I known my father intended to bring me along on his hunt at dawn’s light, I would have rethought carrying out such laborious exploits the night before. As irksome as it was to be roused from my exhaustion, I thought it may be prudent to open my eyes in case we actually were before the maw of a troll and about to be devoured.

You woke me up for this?!

My father knelt at the base of a conical tree with sprigs full of prickly needle-like leaves. It was he this time who carried me in my sling-throne, and just over his shoulder I could see him digging in the dirt. I closed my eyes again. Wake me for no matter of less import than an actual troll that requires slaying.

“Ah, and there it is!” 

My curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked an eye open. Father brushed the dirt off something he cupped in his hands. It looked like a cluster of small white rocks. He picked one and held it over his shoulder, closer to my face. “That should spruce up mommy’s stew a bit, huh?” It smelled delicious. My stomach grumbled, and I felt my mouth salivate. Why is it so difficult to not be hungry in this world?!

“You snubbing Gwen’s cooking, Krig? I’ll have to tell her that,” said the man with a grin.

“You’d do well to keep your mouth shut, Donovar. When Gwen’s cooking is the point of insult, no one is safe from her wrath!” The two laughed at my father’s remark. “But uh…truly. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Share those truffles, and I’ll seal away my words.”

I suppose I couldn’t stay angry with my father for long, even if he had only awakened me to look at a tree. Rubbing the slumber from my eyes and allowing my vision to be fully enveloped in the morning’s light, I could bear witness to the beauty of the forest. Drops of last evening’s rain clung to the leaves all around us. Soft light trickled through the canopy above, dancing as the trees swayed with the wind. The grass sprang and bounced as the blades released dew drops from their edges to fall to the soil beneath them.

A squirrel scurried on a tree ahead, and my father quickly pulled an arrow from the quiver at his waist. 

“Thirty paces away; you really think you can make the shot?”

“Perhaps if you remained silent for longer than a minute, I could actually focus on my aim,” my father whispered, eyes still trained on the squirrel. He loosed the arrow, and the shot went wide. Father sighed with disappointment as he lowered his bow.

“Perhaps it is not my voice that is the issue,” Donovar said, raising his bow with an arrow already nocked. He took aim and loosed the arrow on another squirrel that had emerged a similar distance away, hitting his mark. 

A voice called out from the woods as the two went to collect the squirrel, adding it to others that hung at Donovar’s side. “Any luck with ye two?”

“No,” Donovar called back, “only small game. And you?”

“Just the same.” The man emerged through the brush, wearing a hooded cloak. It was rich green in color, same as my father’s and Donovar’s. “The rain’s washed out any stag tracks, but still we should have found something. Ye think wolves might have scared ‘em?”

My father replied this time. “No tracks to suggest it, but it’s as good a guess as any. Looks like we’ll be stretching squirrel meat again.” A pheasant sitting on a branch was the target of my father’s next arrow, but as the arrow soared past it, the bird took flight, and my father cursed under his breath. “Maker’s mercy…”

The huntsman wasn’t about to miss this opportunity. “Ye belt’s looking a bit light, Krig. Foul luck with the fowls?” 

“Well, how can you expect him to focus with all this noise,” Donovar jested in a hushed tone. “If we keep distracting him with all this ruckus, he’ll be fresh out of arrows.” The two tried to conceal their snickers while my father retorted. 

“I’ve still got the one left, and I’d be happy to loose it on that tongue you so carelessly wag.”

“Alright, alright, leave him be,” Donovar said in surrender. “Let’s head back so as to not distract Master Huntsman Krig.” The two departed from my father’s company. “Come find someone with decent aim if you spot a stag!”

My father chuckled quietly as he watched his guildmates head toward the village. Was he seriously just going to allow them to insult him like that? Not that their words were unfounded; my father was a terrible shot. Still, I found their comradery a tad too tongue-in-cheek for my taste. In my royal courts, men knew when to hold their tongues! 

The royal courts. I suddenly felt overcome with the profound feeling of lostness, homesick for the world I knew but could never return to. All that effort to glance at a map, and I’m no closer to knowing where the hells I am. A task for another day, then. My father had stopped in front of a leafless tree and placed a hand to its trunk. Deep scars were carved into the wood, each slash accompanied by scorching. I wondered what my father was thinking.

Then, faster than I could register, my father spun around, bow at the ready and arrow nocked in one fluid motion. He loosed his last arrow before he had even stopped, hitting a rabbit over 50 paces away squarely in the chest.

Huh. Lucky shot.