On the Hunt 3- Dawn to Noon

A splash of red, a stinging wound. Daisy barked from the campfire but he commanded her to stay. Begrudgingly she did. The hound laid down and sat tensely. Hairs bristling along the old girl's back.

Wilkes was unprepared, and had turned his back on an armed woman intending to hunt him for some archaic notion on honor. He swore at himself as he cut hard to his right. The deeper underbrush should break her line of sight. Even if the shaking trees were more friend to her than most. He had to plan, but first he needed time to think. Another arrow soared past, embedding itself into the trunk of a tree with a dull thunk.

Wilkes crept low, catching his breath for a brief moment. A twig snapped behind him in the distance. The layers of greenery still mostly obscured outside of the scant beams of sunlight. She was green. The foliage was green. He could barely see. She was a trained hunter with orcish vision. He just had to pick hunted. He remembered something Rangpar had taught him. To center his weight on one leg, step with the weightless other, then shift the weight. He moved nearly silently now. No more crashing through the leaves like a wounded animal.

Thinking like a sailor he tried to take in as much of his surroundings as he could. The trampled path he led dying down to merely disturbed greenery was good. His next plan focused on the streams he knew ran on the island back towards the sea. He can't leave the island, sure, but that doesn't mean he couldn't drift for a bit.

Beatrice had the same idea it turned out. Standing in one of the streams, she stood. He watched her chest fall. Slow deep breaths, her clothing proved distracting again. A bounty of green skin, athletic muscle, and feminine curves stood in the morning sun. Water from the stream shone on her body as she idly washed with one hand, keeping the other occupied with a throwing knife. She drank from a water skin this time, he watched her pouty lips pull from it. His mind forgetting entirely she intended to hunt him. Until the knife sailed towards him with a vengeance. He dodged this time, she was empty handed.

In quick succession Wilkes accomplished three things. First he removed his shirt. Second he retrieved her knife from the brush and secured it to his waist with the lace from his shirt as a makeshift belt. Finally he dashed out, threw his shirt towards her with all his strength.

It accomplished two things. First, it leveled the amount of skin on display. Wilkes may have primarily worn a toga until recently, but he was still modest. His unshaven, bare chest **** the secluded huntress to blush and stagger for a brief moment. A moment he needed for the shirt to promptly cover her head. This situation now tipped in his favor oh so briefly. She was stunned, her vision obscured, and his scent was being somewhat washed away. Not ideal as his leather boots did their damnedest to resist this much water being taken on, but he persisted.

The brief distraction allowed him one thing further. He could double back from where he came. In the few seconds the shirt was over her head as she breathed in the scent deeply, purely for the hunt of course, he ran as fast as he could to the same side he escaped from. Circling back would seem foolish at a glance, sure. What he planned on was reusing the already trampled section of the forest. If his tracks laid over themselves they'd become much harder to follow. At least for a moderate to novice hunter. He knew she wasn't going for a kill, but he still had to take her seriously. She had mentioned arrows and traps. The river had likely been one, considering her lack of clothing. Not that Wilkes had burned the image into his mind. Why would he bother memorizing the swing of her hips, or how despite the top's best effort how her breasts heaved with her breath. Green globes of glory...

He tripped over a taunt line of rope. A trip wire living to its exact name. He crashed end over end. His face became acquainted with the mud and roots. He heard distant laughter as a bell began to ring when the rope swung from him crashing through it. He swore and scrambled to his feet. He drew the knife and slashed the taunt rope, a final ring then silence. He was glad it hadn't been a snare. Even with the knife falling in his current health would have proven nearly too difficult to recover from.

He assessed himself and the situation quickly. Primarily, his wounds were still in various stages of open. Some stitched shut, others merely bandaged and given a salve for infection. On top of that he was fighting someone experienced at hunting with a bow and a series of throwing knives. She had shown a keen sense for trapping so far as well. Alarms, mental games, and near misses. Was this moment's reprieve another tra-

An arrow nicked his right calf. A gush of red followed by a trickle. He whirled, knife drawn, trying to find any hint of motion. He risked a glance above and saw her there. Forty feet high, in a branch hardly bigger than her wrist. Her muscular legs wrapped tight around the trunk. Her rear sat upon the branch, her bow was drawn and she fished for another arrow. Another laugh came from her as he dashed again.

The cover of the foliage was now written out if she could climb like that. His new wounds stung, he didn't dare to cut bandages from his clothing now. He had a unique opportunity with this. Biting down on the knife Wilkes did what he still regards as his most reckless, insane choice as a young sailor. He dug fingers into the cuts on his head and calf. Once blood pooled there, he began to smear it in a few places as he ran. Made it look like he had been tumbling as much as running. Like multiple fish lines crossing on a slower catch day. He wasn't a hunter, sure, but he did know how fish behaved. Fish were beasts after all. If he could obscure his escape, he could buy time. If he could buy time, he could cobble together a plan. He thought back and counted the arrows she had expended, three insofar. He knew she typically hunted with thirty.

"one in ten in the first hour... not bad willy." He spoke to himself between ragged breaths. The type of endurance he had built did not serve him well here. He did best at bursts of repetitive activity over long hours. The continued exertion may cut him short if he doesn't find a spot to rest, even for a few moments. The idea hit him as he nearly ran past it. A hunting stand!

A series of horizontal planks nailed into a tree went up and up along the trunk of a mighty tree. Wilkes nodded to himself, knife between his teeth, he climbed. Hand over hand, foot over foot he ascended. Some thirty feet up there was a platform. Four walls and a roof sheltered him from the sun and her vision it seemed. The immediate problem was the singular entrance was also the exit. He had fox holed himself here. He strained his ears to listen. For something, anything. He heard birdsong, which promised him Beatrice wasn't immediately near. The songs were a small victory. Sonorous and smooth, clashing with the dull buzz of anxiety alight in his mind. His back found itself against a wall, lazily looking out the window opposite it. His eyes became heavy after a long night. A twig snapped and he bolted upright.

Scanning his surroundings he saw what caused it. A stone had been thrown onto a downed branch. She used his jumpiness and her surroundings to **** him to peak his head? Or did it just roll down because it was disturbed by an animal? No time to answer questions, he retreated from the hunting stand. He was exposed like this, but had to assume she was either losing his trail or in the process of finding it again. The slight pooling of blood within in the stand may have given him away if she found it. The blood going along the rungs of her ladder would have regardless. His mind was working overtime despite the creeping exhaustion. His legs burned, his sides ached with stitches. Both medical and from short breath. He **** himself to slow down a moment, but burst back onto the scene too quickly. He grilled himself for better preparations as his mind wandered off to his uncertain future.

He had been lucky during the raid. That was against a small group of pirates admittedly as well. He knew they could run with crews into the hundreds, thousands even if legends were to be believed. Not exactly something he could match lonesome. But he wasn't against a crew hundreds strong. He was against a huntress who had previously intended to bed him. One he had offended and was now participating in blood sport to repay that offense. By his own count, Wilkes had been leading her on this chase for about five miles now. At a pace between a sprint and quick jog for the entirety outside his time in the hunting stand. He risked going back to the stream now, miles from their last face to face encounter. He sunk as low to the ground as he could manage. Crawling on his knees and elbows beneath even the lowest layer of foliage. He ignored the bugs that crawled past or briefly on him. The stream came into view. It gurgled as it rushed past. Cautious glances kept him aware as he made it into the open, and stuck a hand in the cool water. He cupped it and drank a few sips quickly. His head remained on a swivel, blind sides meant another cut. Another cut could spell the end of the hunt before he even made it half way.

He dropped into the water as quietly as he could when he saw a green figure standing near the opposite bank. Nearly a quarter mile out, but unmistakable. Within the stream, Rangpar was practicing his swings. Large, cleaving blows. The hulking orc hadn’t seen or heard him thus far it seemed. Wilkes cursed himself for leaving his sword at home. It had made sense when he only thought he’d be apologizing, but now it left him less than equipped to properly challenge his friend here.

A tattoo shimmered blue and Rangpar turned to stare directly at Wilkes. The orc smiled and came crashing out of the water to the bank. On solid ground his speed seemed to double. The jade giant was hurtling towards him, and Wilkes hadn’t even fully returned to standing in the stream. In pure panic, something answered as he screamed within himself. The water rippled. Not from disturbed motion, but seemed to churn against its own current for a moment. The motion pushed at Wilkes’s legs. The nick on his leg closed, and he felt a small stretch from the stitches on his arms closing. The water chose him briefly, and it chose to give him grace. He smiled as he dashed onto land, knife in hand.

Rangpar had him in terms of sheer tonnage. In musculature and reach as well. One thing Wilkes had, was sheer stupidity in his favor. He let Rangpar close the gap, laughing like mad. He threw the borrowed knife towards Rangpar. It was deflected from it’s path with a casual swing of the massive axe. All according to plan. The axe was intimidating due to it's size sure, but it created a hell of a blind spot.

His eyes focused on the knife, not Wilkes. Exactly the moment he needed. His arms wrapped around Rangpar’s waist. He heaved with everything he had, bringing the orc fully off the ground by a few inches. Rangpar discarded the axe and locked across Wilkes’s body in turn. With everything he had, he slammed both of them toward the ground. He rammed his shoulder upward towards the orc’s diaphragm as he did. He wanted to wind his friend, to leave him disorientated enough that he could escape. A wheeze did come from the orc as they tumbled. His plan only half worked. Rangpar was winded, yes, but still very much had a grip on the young sailor.

“Sorry, friend” Rangpar said breathlessly. Wilkes felt his feet leave the ground. Then he felt himself spinning through the air. Finally he felt the trunk of a tree. His back popped from the impact. He wheezed as he crashed another six feet to the ground. Rangpar hadn’t just thrown him, he had been launched.

“That’s… the last time… we wrestle.” Wilkes attempted to joke, sharing a smile with his green friend. Wilkes found his feet first, and disappeared into the trees. He was now on the opposite side of the stream from where the hunt had been incited. Uncharted lands, further away from civilization if he needed to double back.

The sun was out in the later half of mid-day. Noon still an hour out. He was nearly half past it all. Things weren’t great, but they were manageable. He stumbled through the foliage for a bit. Barely missing a snare trap by pure luck. He collapsed afterward. Aching, wounded, exhausted. His eyes drifted between open and shut. He heard stomping through the foliage and rangpar’s deep bass singing about drunken sailors again. He fought to remain awake. If they caught him, the challenge ended and he fell short of his goal.