The hunt had been well, and everyone got a fair share.
Like their clan creature, the Ospreys mainly survived on fish, but also woodland supplies which were kept in stock for winters. As fish were sometimes scarce, the clan could never rely too heavily on the river's fish stock during some summers. In those times, the Mage would perform certain Magecraft to ask the World Spirit to send them prey from the North, alongside offerings.
The younger ones were already fast asleep with full stomachs and happy dreams. The merry chatters of adults started to quieten as the sunlight grew dimmer.
Arlæ sat in front of his shelter and started to fletch his arrows in front of a small fire. He used feathers from the body of an old owl he found three suns ago. By his side he had some berries in a bowl that he chewed on.
Despite the rich meal, he kept on chewing. He hadn't had so much to eat for moons, and all that food in one sun made him dozy.
His fingers became heavy and his shoulder muscles ached.
He started to nod off.
He was asleep before he knew it.
---
His conscience comes by, and he is trying to focus on a blinking flare of light.
He wants to look more closely, but he has to fight the heavy weight on his eyelids to keep watching.
The light becomes larger and dims as his focus gradually fails.
The flashes fade, darkness.
He hears murmurs.
The voices are muffled, the string of words concealed by an invisible veil.
Despite this, Arlæ feels as if the voices are close, even beside him.
One voice whispers a secret into his consciousness, close enough to touch his mind.
He cannot move nor run, his head is heavy as a stone on the ground.
At the back of his eyelids, he sees red.
The dim flashes return, and the strangers are fading.
The crackle of a log brought him back with a shiver. He rubbed his eyes and got up to find that the fire had burnt low.
The camp was eerily quiet.
Arlæ put out the fire.
Only the trees sighed in the silence, with the occasional hoot of an owl.
The arrow he'd been trying to work on lay by his knee. He picked it up and moved inside his shelter.
The last sunlight was disappearing behind clouds and mountains, and darkness was eating away at the light.
Arlæ sat down cross-legged, and thought about the dream. It was so short, but he remembered it vaguely.
His eyes lowered from the sinking sun to the half-worked arrow. As the light sank, Arlæ spotted something he should've seen before. He was too tired to feel it on his fingers, but now he saw it.
There was a mark on the slate of his arrow. He didn't recognize the mark, but it was an enticing craft that he hadn't seen before. A short wavy line continued from the tip of the arrowhead's slate, forming a circle half way. Incenter was a star, carved in a single line. The dusk light gave it a faint gleam, like a streak of blood.
That too faded as dark fell.