I think we have him.
The smell of blood is close, and fresh. There! A handprint, on that tree.
Without sound, I motion quietly in the air above me: two fingers in a half moon. My men will adjust their positions. I know without looking.
He’s crafty, this one. A nobleman, perhaps? Certainly not used to running for his life through dark streets and tight alleys. How quickly he fled the paved streets to seek refuge in the wood.
So arrogant! We will find him, trees or no. The Watch is skilled. City, mountain or forest, we will find you.
This one won’t live to see the dawn. If my men lose sleep, he’ll regret it. They will make it hurt.
He moves fast, and quiet – wasn’t he wearing armor? Scale mail, could be enchanted. Perhaps this is not his first hunt!
My men circle around: two left, and three right. So, this is where he has chosen to die. A strong trunk, old and knotted. He picked a good one.
His blood pools around the base. Three fingers up, my hand turns over. This kill is mine.
I approach the tree, horn-hilted blade clenched tightly in my hand. I step around to find –
A hare, pinned to the tree waist-high, bleeding down the length of the trunk to the ground below.
Oh, you clever bastard—
His arrow pierces my throat.