Bwewaar

[Archivarius]

It was a cold winter mornin’. Thick white mist lay heavy over the King’s Forest,
so thick a man could near lose himself ten paces from where he stood.

Only sound in them woods was the slow drip of half-frozen drops,
fallin’ from branches that could no longer carry the weight of ’em.

For Sszar the Snareb, that was just another mornin’.

Snow hung in the air, and Sszar hated movin’ through woods like this,
leavin’ a trail behind him the way flies follow a dyin’ cow.

Sszar always liked strange comparisons like that.
Most days they made him grin to himself.

But not today.

The King’s hunters move through these woods like tracks don’t exist.
Makes a trapper’s work harder than it already is.

And worse still, they stomp straight through his snares
like they’re nothin’ but bits of paper strung between twigs.

Most of ’em are busted now.
Not all, though.

Four rabbits hang from the snares he set two nights back.
That ain’t much, but it’s better than empty hands.

Still, he won’t be settin’ traps here again any time soon.

Experience taught Sszar one thing about hunters.

They ain’t blind.

They might thunder through the forest like a herd of mammoths,
and hear about as well as a yellow-beaked snapper,
but blind they most surely ain’t.

Sszar always assumes his traps were seen.
And smashed on purpose.

And what he’s lookin’ at now tells him that guess was right.

The hunters are on a war path.

Not after soldiers.
Not after wolves.

They’re huntin’ the one who set the snares.

And the King’s hunters ain’t known for kindness
when it comes to lizardmen poachin’ in the King’s Forest.

Sszar looks at the four rabbits swingin’ in the cold air.

That’s enough.

Best leave it at that.

[Archivarius]

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