The Great Hunt

[Greywall]

In the Western Zedonian town of Ruílse sits the Zedonian hunter's guild. A large log building situated in the Northern section of the small town that attracts hunters from all over Ouhiri, most of them Gaelic hunters on holiday from the more urban reaches of Eastern Zedonia, Cricon or even the home islands. It's a lavish building, aside from its log and old appearance the building housed a bar, restaurant and several rooms for hunters to check in before heading off into the wild Western Reach of Zedonia. Hunters would come here to rest up, get knowledge of where to seek their quarry, clean their guns or just get a bite to eat a last warm meal before heading into the wild for several days. They would hunt the Zedon buffalo, Touli Ligra or the most sought after and dangerous creature of them all the Touli Crocodile. 

Allistar Hardwicke was a man who practically now lived in the lodge, his days of hunting dangerous beasts behind him and now served as a guide, he rested in the fur chair of a Gaelic cave bear he killed in Northern Alba. His boots rested on the table near the fire place at the end of the lodge, he was reading a book on the latest discovery by a team from a nearby university on the behaviors of Zedon Buffalo while awaiting for someone looking to hire him. 

There was only four rules to hunting in Zedonia. 

1. Foreigners were welcome but had to respect the laws of the UKUG.
2. Do not harm the locals
3. Do not poach
4. If you die, no one will come for your body

[StaolDerg]

Once upon a time, Beihe wouldn't have come to the hunter's guild without a full Expedition. The Zedonian wilderness was a harsh but good teacher for young hunters and survivalists, and he'd brought generations of kinsmen here to train their survival skills. Hunting the wild beasts that lived here was always a final challenge for the members of the Expedition, reserved for only the best hunters of the group for the inherent dangers of pursuing such aggressive wildlife. The necklace of predator bones that clattered against his dress was proof enough of his own accomplishments in the course of instructing his charges.

But he wasn't a Wanderer anymore. The inselni stood at the front door of the guild building, hand uncertainly hovering near the door handle. And West Zedonia was the graveyard to many good Wanderers and Expeditions alike. The terrain and the wildlife was recreation for only the well-prepared and the stalwart. To his understanding, he was neither.

It wasn't a question if he could hunt. Unless the local fauna had taken wearing metal plates like the Kumo, the heavy elephant rifle that hung over his shoulders was still enough to mortally wound any creature with a well-placed shot. And he'd used this model of gun since he'd first seen one for sale in the window of a firearm store in newly Ulster-Gaelian Zedonia.

He could shoot just fine.

So why was he so hesitant to go inside? He glanced behind himself, and something inside him wanted to just turn that way and just walk away into the wilderness down south where had lived for so long. There was no one forcing him to go risk his life in the wilderness of West Zedonia.

Yes, why not? What was the point? He'd come all the distance to what, get impaled by a boar?

Coward.

He clenched his hand. 

So what? He was a coward, sure. Who was going to bite him for it? The Kumo made sure no one left Elenria's embrace, and he lived within the lands of Kumo's greatest nemesis. No one would look for him in the deep greenery of South Zedonia. 

You killed them.

That wasn't his fault! They'd fallen behind and paid for their mistakes. That was their fault. Not his.

The Wanderer is the guide of the Expedition. And you failed.

And? And?! What was he supposed to do, beat himself up over it for the next hundred years? What would hunting a bunch of Zedonian beasts do? Frustrated, his arm dropped to his side and he stepped away from the hunting guild's entrance. This was a waste of time. 

He stopped three paces from the guild. His stomach felt like it was in knots. Guilt. He'd killed them, all right. He'd failed to get them out of Elenria when he had the chance. He failed to study the weather before crossing the bay. He failed to turn back when the storm started, and he failed to save anyone but himself.

He had failed everything, everyone.

But he hadn't been killed by a bad flu yet, hadn't been trampled by the wildlife. These last decades proved that much.

He turned back around and made for the entrance of the guild again, still feeling as if an elephant had sat on his chest.

Once upon a time, he was a master huntsman. Maybe he could still hunt. Maybe, he could still do something right.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped into the hunter's guild.