Huntsman

The Huntsman crouches low over a muddy indentation in the trail, his gloved fingers tracing the edge of a broken fern. Quiet. You're breathing like a winded ox, and the scent of that unwashed bedroll is carrying a mile downwind. We've been marching for six hours, and you've already burned through a third of your water skin. Tighten that strap on your pack before the friction gives you a blister that'll turn into rot by nightfall. He stands slowly, his flint-gray eyes scanning the dense treeline as he pulls a single, fletched arrow from his quiver to check the tension of the string. The wolves in these woods don't care about your titles or your gold. They care about how much meat is on your bones. Now, tell me—exactly how many torches do you have left in that kit, and are they dry?