The Hunter and The Hunted

Sher Bahadur, the Khajiit hunter-ranger-merchant, was tired, cold and hungry.

Since dawn, he had been scouting the icy wasteland around his log-cabin home in the Winterhold, looking for something meaty to hunt down and take back to his starving family. So far, he had only caught a wee rabbit, barely enough to feed his kid. He had also spotted the paw-prints of a wolf, and tried to track it down, but the prints had faded away in the soft snow drifts, and there was neither any further sight nor sound of wolves.

He prided himself on being a good hunter, but all his snares and traps this month had yielded naught. The extreme and prolonged winter had taken an alarming toll on his home's winter-larder -- it had depleted to its barest reserves, leaving just potions and spices -- and his family had been eating soup since the past week, somehow gamely hanging on to see the harsh winter through.

He had sent a wandering courier to his cousin in the city, hoping the Jarl would spare something for his loyal rangers, those who still guarding these frozen borders. But disappointingly, there had been no response from the Jarl, nor any respite from the winter's severity. Before he went, the courier had mentioned some silly rumor of dragons -- they were revived suddenly from the past age, as a punishment for our mortal sins, he said. It was all ridiculous. Yet, somehow all the surrounding countryside seemed to have been emptied of the chicken, cattle, deer and other ruminants and livestock, within a short span. As if they had simply been carried away in the dark of the night. Bandits or thieves, he suspected, though thankfully he had seen no active signs of them nearby.

Nothing substantial grew in these icy, weather-beaten areas -- they were called wastelands, for a reason. So any agriculture for him was limited to his wife's kitchen plants, and a few hard cabbages grown in their small garden patch during the short days of summer.  Now it was winter, and the harshest winter in recent years. Where had all the deer gone this year? He had not seen them migrating. It would have felt good to get anything decent to hunt or forage.

His stomach rumbled. His wife had tearfully and stubbornly packed the last bit of food to aid him in his hunt, and he had already finished it to soothe his gnawing hunger pangs. In frustration, he had even dug into a bear's frozen lair, but it was empty since ages -- the bear long gone, to better hunting grounds. His bow was getting stiff with the freezing cold, and his arrows getting blunt with recent disuse. He must remember to sharpen them today evening, otherwise it would be difficult to use them tomorrow.

It looked like it would just be rabbit soup tonight, and a few hard berries he had found in the bear's lair. If this continued, he would have to shut his home and take his family as refugees to the distant city, and during their self-imposed exile, he feared the lovely home he had built with his bare hands might get robbed by thieves, or worse, it could be desecrated and burnt down by vagrants, vandals, necromancers, bandits, hags, or whatever. Skyrim was a depressing place to rear a family, that was for sure. The so-called Civil War between the Imperials and Stormcloaks didn't yet penetrate into these almost-forgotten wastelands, but its impact could still be felt -- by the sheer apathy of the Jarl and his troops towards the common folk. Even the forest rangers and hunters who implicitly kept the Jarl's peace on these fringes, had been forsaken.

*sigh*

With these dreary thoughts and a heavy heart, Sher Bahadur trudged towards his warm home. At least, there had been enough  wood to keep the hearth-fire burning, and the furs and skins he had acquired by skilled hunting in these past years, would still keep him and his family from freezing out in the wintry night. He quickened his pace as he neared his home, eager to be out of this frigid wind and clammy snow.

Suddenly he heard a low snarl. A shadow slowly loped into the periphery of his distant vision.

The wolf! The one he had been trying to hunt. If there was one, there would be a pack!

Keeping his eye on the wolf, Sher Bahadur quickly glanced around, but he could see no other wolves.

The wolf had spotted him and it warily circled, slowly getting nearer and nearer as it took stock of him; both of them sizing each other up.

Quick as a flash, Sher Bahadur dropped to his knee, lifted his bow and reached for an arrow from his back-quiver, in one smooth motion. And struggled.

The stupid quiver was frozen! The iron arrows had gotten stuck to each other due to the extreme wetness and cold, he realised, as if waking into a nightmare. He couldn't even pull a single arrow, and his bow was useless without it!

The wolf must have realised he was helpless, and it sneaked closer, its slobbering jaws almost grinning in wolfish delight.

The irony of it all! The hunter had become the hunted, and he must look like a tasty chunk of fleshy meat to the hungry wolf!

It must have got separated from the rest of its pack when they had migrated for the winter, and somehow it must have clung to its life, and become more bolder in approaching and attacking these sparse human settlements. That explained the missing livestock around these parts!

All these myriad thoughts ran as an undercurrent in Sher Bahadur's mind, and yet his brain concocted his next plan of action.

The wolf was just a few feet away now; whining and growling with hunger, fear, anger and anticipation; its canines glinting in the harsh snow-glare; its gaunt frame belying its fury; its soft fur rippling on taut sinews. The wolf was cunning and cautious. It was looking for an easy opening to attack its intimidating opponent. Its intrinsic fear of humans had reduced due to the severe winter, but not completely forgotten. It knew a hunter when it saw one. Its mortal enemy was now accosted and cornered, but still deadly and dangerous.

Sher Bahadur drew himself together and roared loudly to further intimidate it, making it halt and pause with a sudden doubt and wariness. But he knew its hunger and predatory instincts would overcome its momentary hesitation, and it would pounce at the slightest opportunity.

His skinning knife! He drew it silently with a surreptitious ease, so as to not to alarm the wolf.  But he dared not use it unless the wolf attacked, as his arms and legs were already sore and stiff, and his back ached with the armor his wife had insisting on him wearing. Despite his admonitions at her at that time, the armor might just save his life now, he wryly admitted to himself. All he needed now was a diversion, so he could get to the safety of his cabin that was just a stone's throw away. Maybe he could throw his bow at the wolf, and somehow try to outrun it?

Bang, bang, bang, ding, ding, bang, bang, thump, thud, bang

What the....

It was his wife and kid, just outside the home! It looked like they were banging on metal platters with tankards, to attract the wolf!

The diversion he needed!

As the wolf looked back in sudden confusion at the strange noise, Sher Bahadur pounced silently at the wolf, his knife poised for impact.

It connected, with warm flesh.

With a deafening shriek, the wolf howled at the stabbing; snarling and biting him, as they sprawled over and tumbled over the snowdrift in a death-roll.

When they finally stopped, it was almost over.

The white wolf was dying; its last few breaths wheezing like wind squeezing from a ruptured forge-bellow; its final laments became pitiable whines that pierced his soul.

Sher Bahadur had had enough. With a single, strong stab, he plunged the dagger into its neck and gave it the final mercy of everlasting sleep.

By then, his wife and kid had run over to him. They all hugged each other tightly - tears of joy and relief streaming down their haggard faces.

Sher Bahadur lifted his son and set him up on his shoulders, as his wife helped him drag the heavy wolf, and they all walked back together, to their cosy home.

Seated atop his father's shoulder, the kid squealed with excitement and delight, and regaled him with a shocking story. The wolf had been sneaking and howling around the house compound all day. They had locked themselves in, and all their attempts to shoo it away had been to no avail. Through a gap in the window, they had kept a watch for him (Sher Bahadur), finally spotted him coming back from his hunt, and then worriedly seen the wolf trying to waylay him, so mother had decided they would make a very noisy din to scare away the dangerous wolf.

The impromptu plan had worked, better than anyone could have hoped for!

That night, after a sumptuous and tasty meal of roasted wolf-meat and rabbit-haunch soup, Sher Bahadur lazed in his armchair in front of the hearth-fire. As his wife sat near his chair and sang a sweet lullaby to get their kid to sleep in her lap, Sher Bahadur draped an arm around her fondly. His tired muscles finally relaxed, as he stared ponderously at the glowing embers in the fire, and came to a decision.

Tomorrow morning, they would pack up whatever they would need onto their wagon and set off for the Windhelm city.

He would set up a hunting shop at or near the city. Maybe he should name it after the wolf that nearly killed him today: White Shadow Wolf's Wares? That had a nice ring to it! He was skilled in ranging, good at crafting hunting bows, and a shrewd haggler to boot, so he could trade the animal pelts, furs and hunting accessories by making them and securing them from his ranger friends across the land - he would give them a fair deal, at least they would not suffer like him alone in these winter wastelands.

Let the Daedra take his cabin, he didn't care. He could always build another.

His home and hearth was right now with him - in his arms - his little family. And they were dearer to him than all the pelts and cabins in the world.

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SOURCE: Screenshot from the PC game The Elder Scrolls V : Skyrim, © Bethesda Softworks.