Return of the Hunter

((From Early 2009 - is a personal favorite because it ties the original way I played Art to ways played him over time. Out of context, this may not be as interesting - but still a keeper))

In the morning he digs through some crates, mindlessly digging through the clothing he has purchased from many ports.  His hand touches a piece of fur and holds fast.   It feels like something that is like a dream, like a memory, but in a way what he still is.

Every where he turns, the horns blow, the drums beat, the hearts grow stronger.  War comes to this land.  No longer are many to ignore what the Northerners have done.  No longer can so many fight separately.  Come soon, a fight will come far greater than any recognized.

Standing in his well tailored jacket, Arturos, looking across a frozen patch of rye.  He fights to think of the spring planting.  He fights to wonder what has happened to the livestock.  He fights to think of Jill Frost, of Morrigan, of vampires, of lycans.  Instead, each time he closes his eyes he sees friends, eyes glazed over ready for a fight.  He tries to think with his soul to be clear, to be focused towards those problems that threaten him every day.  But he can not deny the vision of them falling in the red snow.

The Northerners continue to force themselves on us.  Each of us in a way have been threatened by them.  Not all can fight, but those who can … they must make a decision.   To ignore what they do or to join the army.

He finds himself running through the wilds, gaining speed across the open paths and down the hill.  The buck in front of him runs hard as well, cutting back and forth down what it is familiar with.  Arturos, sweated hard within the jacket, slipping on his boots with smooth well tanned leather..  His sword drawn, he pushed his body past the pain to get this creature.  It had been months since he hunted in Karamoon, but the chase was on, but regardless he hadn’t forgotten what was key.

The flags over the camp snap and bite in the chill.  The curl of smoke rolls between tent to tent.  May men raise a glass and laugh in the coming troubles.  Many will not see each other before the coming days are out, but as with all wars the glory doesn’t come form winning, but with a good fight.

In his hands was not any piece of fur.  A shirt … pants … leggings.  The touch of them were like the finest of velvet under his fingers, thought it was just the touch of past happiness.  He looked out the window to the setting sun and made his decision.  There was a day we wore these with friends.  Before he was an innkeeper, before he was a merchant; and well before he was governor; Arturos wore the clothes of a hunter.  He will wear them once more.