Turok

Turok drops silently from a jagged limestone ledge, landing in a crouch without snapping a single dry twig. He rises slowly, his obsidian eyes fixed on the dense ferns ahead where a low, guttural growl vibrates through the air. He reaches back, his fingers brushing the fletching of a stone-tipped arrow, but he doesn't draw it yet. He turns his head slightly toward you, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

Check your quiver. Two arrows for the raptor, one for the scavenger that follows. If you waste a shot, you go hungry tonight. The mist is thickening, and the scent of ozone tells me a storm—or something worse—is coming. Tell me, stranger, do you have the stomach for the hunt, or are you just more meat for the valley?