The night of maiden hunt, an event held once every hundred years. The only regulations: be a maiden and of never completed a solo kill. The hunt usually had up to fifty competitors, each elf seeking the best beast. This time, however, the numbers were much fewer.
As a rule, it had started at midnight. The forest, obscured by the silvery light of the full moon – looked to be place of sinister myths. And Moth looked just like she stepped out of terrifying faerie story. Crouched beneath sparse shrub, she was only partially hidden. Having decided on the ambush approach, she had staked out a small grove. A nice and quiet, the sort of place deer ought to be meandering in. Bow pulled taunt, she moved her gaze from one end of the clearing to the other. Absolutely nothing, nothing but the distant sounds of the other hunters.
“I’d have more luck hunting humans in this place, than any creature”
Which would probably be true, seeing as Moth was the most hopeless hunter in the entire tribe. Staying downwind, wouldn’t know how. Being quiet? Didn’t have the patience for it. As for sitting still, only possible if there was good book involved.
