It was a cool, crisp morning when Thorne headed off into the forest for an afternoon of checking his traps and snares for game. He traveled light, with a pair of hunting knives strapped along his belt and a crossbow slung over his back... not that it was likely he would have to use them. What snow was left on the ground crunched under his boots as he made his way down a familiar trail, snaking over logs, around rocks, and finally making it to a shallow stream before settling into a normal walking pace. Below the thin sheet of ice across the water, he could hear the babbling sound of a thawing brook. It was relaxing, and he liked the sound as he moved along.
His first snare was empty, of course; this one always was. He crouched next to it and undid the lines, dropping it into the small bag at his waist so he could set it in another location later. The further out from home he got, usually the better game was available. Finished in this spot, he made he way back to the stream and continued further on.
