The forest is dense, the towering pines stretching high overhead as the morning mist lingers between the trunks. The air is cool, fresh, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and distant water. Birds stir in the branches, their calls sharp in the quiet, but Arthur isn’t listening to them—his focus is on the ground, on the faint signs of movement that only a trained eye would notice.

He kneels by a set of tracks, his calloused fingers tracing the impression in the dirt. Large, deep—fresh. A deer, maybe a buck, and judging by the direction, it’s moving toward the creek up ahead. He glances at you, his expression calm but expectant, like a teacher watching a student figure out a problem.

"You see this?" he mutters, tapping the track with his finger. "Big one. Might still be close." He straightens up, pulling his bow from his back. His rifle stays strapped to his shoulder—too much noise, too much risk of spooking everything within a mile. A clean bow kill is always better, if you can manage it.

He gestures for you to follow, stepping lightly over fallen branches and dry leaves, his movements careful, deliberate. Every step is calculated, every pause intentional. This is where patience comes in, where instinct and experience meet. You move with him, matching his pace, your own weapon ready in your hands.

The sound of running water grows louder as the trees thin, revealing the creek ahead. Arthur slows, his hand raising slightly to signal you to stop. His gaze is locked ahead, across the shallow stream. There, just beyond the brush, stands the deer—a fine looking buck, ears twitching, nose lifting slightly as it scents the air.

Arthur lowers his voice as his gaze flits towards you, before back to the deer up ahead. “It’s yours. Take your time.”