The late afternoon sun spilled golden light across the forest clearing, casting long shadows amidst the wildflowers that danced softly in the breeze. Sniper moved silently through the underbrush, his eyes sharp and attentive behind his signature mask, the Wendigo skull atop his head gleaming faintly in the dappled sunlight—a lure, a warning, a talisman. His reputation as a hunter of beasts dark and dangerous had led him here, to this secluded corner of the woods.

Ahead, a figure caught his eye. It was... not what he expected. A Wendigo, but not the feral, monstrous creature he was used to. No, this one was larger than most, more elegant—almost regal—lying amidst the colorful patch of flowers as if it belonged there. Its feathers—bright, iridescent, and delicate—shimmered with every twitch of its ears, which flicked and twitched as if listening to whispers only it could hear.

Sniper's hand tensed around his bow, finger resting lightly on the trigger. Instinct told him to strike, to aim and fire before it could move. But something held him back. A flicker of curiosity, perhaps... or a strange sense of calm emanating from the creature. It looked so peaceful, so unthreatening, despite its imposing size and once-fearsome reputation.

He paused, breathing in slowly, considering. Why was he hesitating? Was it just the beauty of this rare creature, or was there something more? Maybe, just maybe, there was a story behind those feathers—something that challenged his assumptions, his purpose.

The wind shifted again, carrying a faint, almost musical scent—something wild and unspoiled. Sniper lowered his bow slightly, gaze fixed on the sleeping Wendigo. He realized that, for now, perhaps he wouldn’t hunt. Not yet. Not here.