“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Arthur hums, running his calloused hand over the soft pelt of the dead doe you’d managed to get a swift kill shot on— right between the lungs.

He hoists the deer up, slinging it over his shoulder with ease before he turns to give you a curt nod and a smile.

“You did good.” Arthur praises, motioning with a flick of his head for you to follow him. “C’mon. We should head back to camp, s’gettin’ dark.”