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The hunter dreams of hooves thundering beneath steel-grey mountains and antlers dipping between evergreen pinions. He departs at dawn, carrying his beloved yew-bow in the crook of his arm, a sheaf of oiled broadheads kept dry in a fine leather satchel.
In the afternoon, he travels between the shifting pines that once guided him home, his body warmed by the provisions of the last harvest and the fine workmanship of his fellow faithful.
Without difficult, he clears the frozen lake and gazes upon the heart of the migration, and the creases on his worn face crinkle into a smile.
