trapped in the fog

Tyrfing had changed over the Long Night. First he'd found a friend in a small roaming penguin (a fitting companion to match his taskmaster hummingbird) and shortly after, he'd begun to bud new crystalline fangs. Adjusting to them had been hard on him, but every new day that past was one he'd learned a little more on how to eat, grasp, and kill with his new mutations. Now that they were at their full length a new development began, an ache deep in his skull and tiny buds that he knew would soon be horns. Why his Gods had blessed him so heavily, Fin could not begin to pretend to know. What he did know was that he'd need to continue to prove himself useful to his Gods and Pack, and to do that he took up the role of huntsman and began to search for prey to fill their stores.

The ache in his head today was worse then it had been in days past, and Fin had quickly decided against the traditional chase, catch, kill sort of hunting he was used to. His penguin had been telling him the story of his life, and in it had explained a new way to catch prey that Fin had not yet been taught. Snares. With the companion at his side to advise him, Fin got to work creating a deadfall trap that would quickly end the life of a small herbivore.

The range was a relatively flat area, so Fin was forced to move further into the east until he found forest suitable for his idea. Already many rotting logs lay in the heavy mist, and Fin had decided to put his above average size to the test in hoisting one up to position. He placed his shoulder beneath the bark and heaved hard, barely managing to nudge the log when he knew he needed to bring it vertical. Fuck.

Already his confidence was waning, and though he tried and tried he was unable to hoist the log high enough to prove a suitable deadfall. He was all but ready to go home and call it a failure when the penguin spoke up again, this time with a new tale of a hole in the ground littered with sharp sticks where a predator had once tried to chase him in to his death. Fin took the advice gratefully, setting his paws to digging a suitably sized pit.

The digging took what felt like hours, but finally the viking yearling had a pit that almost fit his own form. Surely it would do to catch a rabbit or a small deer. His next job was to begin collecting sticks, and his penguin assisted him by waddling through the fog and pointing out with his beak decently sized and sharpened ones. Fin was forced to sharpen them further with his new teeth, wanting to be sure they would be suitable for a merciful kill on whomever might fall into his trap. Once he had a dozen or so prepared he began jamming their dull end into the dirt, spikes pointing upwards toward the sky.

With the sticks placed, Fin realized that his trap was about as visible and noticeable as they came. The oversized gap in the earth would easily draw the eye of any prey even one panicked and fleeing, and he knew he'd be forced to find a way to hide it before he'd catch anything within it. The low hanging fog helped, but Fin set to stripping brushes of their wide coverage of leaves to overlay above the pit and sticks for extra camouflage.

The trap was complete and hidden as best as he could manage, and Fin knew the next step was to find himself a target. This sort of trap required him to run a prey animal into it, he only hoped he could do it successfully even with the way his head was pounding hard. This time he sent his hummingbird to assist, watching the colorful bird flitter through the woods and waiting quietly for it to bring back word of a meal.

Fin waited patiently, and the hummingbird returned with good news. A small deer was through the trees upwind, oblivious and simply eating the plentiful grasses. Fin moved on in it's direction, looping around from behind it and coming crashing through the bushes to spook it in the direction of his trap. The deer panicked, darting through the fog exactly where Fin had anticipated. It ran for a few yards with Fin on it's tail, and then dropped from view with a squelch and a final alarmed bleat.

He glanced down into the pit to see the staked deer and wrinkled his muzzle at how poor a job the trap had done in killing it. An improvement to make for next time, he supposed, working his way down the deadly pit to retrieve his prize.


Word Count: 821