Andrew didn't hunt very often, mostly because he hated it. But he also did not like being a vegetarian, and looking into the sweet, mild eyes of a cow, he couldn't ever eat steak again. He was also very, very find of chickens and could never bring himself to sacrifice one for the greater good.

So, therefore, when he hunted, he hunted deer.

It was easy, most of the time. He was a naturally skilled archer and knew how to prep it once the job had been done, and it was nothing more than an irritating chore.

So he had left the comfortable hermit shell of his cottage and ventured out into his forest. He heard the quiet sound of leaves rustling and twigs breaking, he had aimed at what he thought was a deer, and he had taken the shot.

Not a deer.

Oops.

So now he was staring into the eyes of a stranger who he had accidentally speared with an arrow. Not in a fatal place, of course, but his internal monolog was not PG. He stared at you, eyes wide.