Faded blue skies, tall gray cliffs, and crystal clear waters. No matter what exotic locals to which the Hunter's quests would take him, the sights and smells of the Noga Woods would always fill him with a sense of home. So here he sat, dangling his feet over the high cliffs that dropped just outside the quaint village that bordered the woods.
Not that the village was a poor place to live by any means! But for a hunter so long in the making, it was perhaps loud and lively. It was out here, looking over the horizon at mid-day, or listening to the sounds of the forest at night, that he felt most at peace.
That was perhaps why, when he was able to return, he felt the pull of nostalgia. When such a tile struck, out would come an old case, hidden deep within his storage box. Out would come something precious.
The Hunter paused in his thoughts a moment to reach up and touch one of the fringes of hide on his armor. He did not have to look to know that it was frayed and more than a little worn. In that box was this armor, his first armor, imbued and made with the first of many bites, blood and flame.
Held precious, so his first mistakes and triumphs would never be forgotten. It reminded him of the first tales he would tell, in a grand tradition (as he would later learn) from hunters more aged and skilled than he, to the children. Simple stories, of course, compared to what beasts and tales he had to tell of and about now, but always worth remembering as the starting point of his adventures.
For those stories, all the children of the village would gather in the market square to hear of his exploits. It was almost saddening to think that perhaps he might have had a son of his own, if he had settled down. Someone to tell his tales to, even now. Still though, Spirits forbid that a hunter should have any spawn.
Hiking a foot back onto the cliff edge, he rested elbow on knee and chin on palm. He could not wish such a cruel fate on any woman: To foster children and never know if her husband would return on his own two feet, or carried, if at all.
No, hunting never needed to be a family business. In his travels, he had encountered more than his fair share of eager young men and women, ready to make such a name for themselves has he had. That brought a frown. Many of those enthusiastic young lives might be cut short. If not by inexperience, than by ill fortune on a monster's teeth.
He was brought out of these dark thoughts by a quiet rustling behind him. To small and soft to be anything overtly dangerous. A quick glance revealed a young Kelbi, tripped over itself while running. The pack itself seemed rather at ease for having a human so close by.
This did not come as much of a surprise to the hunter, his armor was so infused with the scent of the woods, and he himself had not harmed a Kelbi in years. It had been easy to befriend these smaller creatures, when he proved that he meant no harm. It would probably have been a simple task for him to walk up to a young buck and carve off its horns willingly.
The Hunter glanced back out from the cliffs as dawn began to rise over the tranquil scene. For one moment, the sun lit up the deep crevices of the rock, casting a golden glow. The only sounds the roar of the waves, the rush of the wind. He felt at one with this place.
In another moment, it was gone. A screech echoed through the crags, breaking the morning and scattering the Kelbi. The Hunter was unfazed at the interruption, though he managed a sigh. As it was, he stood and drew his bowgun's strap tight to his back.
A Great Jaggi.
He smiled.
Someone would have to teach that monster a lesson about disturbing perfect mornings.