Poised in the underbrush, he finally found the chance to eat. The old man had his spear at the ready, he willed himself to not miss. Hunters his age are rare, rarer still are those with all their limbs attached. His time moving across the southern desert has weaved cracks in his dark, dehydrated skin and threatened to burn it away like fire.

As he looked at the small duckbilled reptile grazing in the reed bed he took quick glances with his eyes at the surrounding tree line. He never forgot how the bladed teeth of a young carchar almost snatched his head in a moment of distraction. He can never forget this, for the devilish beast did take his scalp. The turban covering the hunter’s head has kept the exposed tissue safe from the elements. A little magical healing never hurt either.

It was a constant reminder on every hunt he went on. Be it for food or contract, decisions had to be made quickly. For when his prey spots him, he has less than a second to decide the cost of committing to an action or letting fate take his life.

The little duckbill perked its head up for a brief moment. Turning left it sees nothing but the field of ferns it had been snacking on, to the right in the tree line stood silence. A sudden object soon came flying from the trees. Before the animal could blink the hunter’s spear had landed a direct hit into its skull. The soil was stained with blood and brain matter as it collapsed to the ground. It is a good day to be a hunter, but if he’s not gone soon it may be better to be a scavenger.