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Description
There was work to be done. Visiting the tavern every day was slowly no longer becoming an option. Money was scarce at the best of times, and she had so little of it. Sure, she had a job now, but what good it be unless she could actually perform it? Chantal sighed as she poked at the ash in her campfire. She shamelessly indulged, that was it. How long had it been since she had a full meal that she didn't have to cook herself? Too long. Plus there was ale. It was too tempting. After being sure that the fire was out, she stood. Well, time to get to it.
She first went to check her nearby traps. She tread carefully, gently stepping over twigs and dancing around bushes. It would do her no good if she caught an animal and then spooked it before she could slay it. She hardly breathed as she walked through the forest. She saw tracks in front of her. Deer, from the looks of it. Oh, maybe a doe or a stag got caught. Maker willing, she wouldn't have to go hungry tonight. Chantal crept along at a snail's pace, and paused when she heard some frantic rustling. She grinned. Almost forgetting to breath, she scaled the tree closest to her trap. Oh, it was a stag. A young one, probably just left its mother's side. Its leg was caught in a rope noose, and it shook the tree it was tied to, trying so desperately to be free again. I'm sorry, she thought to the deer, drawing her daggers as quietly as possible. It knew it was in danger, and that almost made having to kill it worse.
Almost.
She leaped from the branches, and her daggers sunk into the stag's flesh. It cried pitifully and its life slowly drained. In a final act of defiance however, it looked back at her. It didn't buck or try to throw her off. It just stared at her. It forced her to watch as its life slipped away into oblivion. "I'm sorry," she mumbled quietly as the animal fell to the ground with a soft thud. Such was the life of a hunter, especially when she chose a most intimate way of killing.
Stripping flesh from bone was a swift, if not mundane, task, and it took her little over a half hour to complete. She was starting to remember why she opted for visiting the tavern again. It was something new. Something exciting. Even some encounters were not entirely pleasurable.
She took her time in completely her other tasks. The tedious challenge of removing flesh from fur for her blankets, the collecting of more dry firewood and kindle, the collecting of drinkable water. But no matter how slowly she went about them, it took her little time at all. Well, the skin would have to dry. But, she would still have the afternoon off, as some would say. What would she do? Return to the tavern and dabble in useless conversation again? She had been so out of touch with civilization, she realized, that the rowdiness of the day before actually bothered her some. Too many people, too much noise. Though, thinking about it on her own, she couldn't tell what she preferred more. Being in this unbreakable silence without even a pet to talk to, or being surrounded by the drunkards and the fighting. It was a mind boggling conundrum. She liked having someone to talk to, but she also liked being out on her own. She liked people-- At least, she thought she liked people.
Chantal found herself sitting on a log, forcing herself to look through her memories. Did she like people in the past? An odd question to ask oneself, but a question she needed to answer. It was an answer she should have known already, like the many answers she had given that Orlesian elf the other night. She had drunkenly told that elf that she met only one other of his kind before him. Was that really true? She believed it was. She couldn't think of any other elves she had actually taken the time to talk to in the past. She didn't talk to them and avoided them like the plague, because of everything her father and his army buddies had said to her about them. So she led herself to believe. But the harder she thought about it, the more and more she realized that she could not remember a thing from her life before she ran. Even the last ten years were difficult to recall. She could remember certain events, or even certain feelings that she had, but she could remember nothing else. Days of her childhood blurred together senselessly. It was challenging to tell the difference between an actual memory and a mere fantasy her mind had conjured up to fill in the blanks. She could see vague images of the places her father took her, but no faces. Maybe some hair, and the random shock of red or blond or white. Sometimes even a tattoo, or some other distinguishing marking like a scar or birthmark. But never a face. Only those of her family. And a particular Chasind Wilder that she may have fallen in love with once. How many people had she met in her lifetime and then had simply forgotten? Had she unknowingly lied to the elf? Was her life really so mundane that she could not retain a single true and normal memory?
She laughed mirthlessly at herself. "What an idiot I must be," she cooed. "And how boring my life must have been." She laid back in the frosted grass and stared up at the trees. Nothing else mattered while she was trying to survive. Maybe that was why she forgot everything else. But something did matter. A prize bigger than anything she had ever tried stealing before. Something far more precious than a shiny trinket or a gem. She pulled out a locket from beneath her shirt and pried it open. It resisted, green gunk causing the latch to stick together. Hm, seems she'll have to clean it again soon. And maybe see if she could find someone artistic enough to replace the drawings inside. But she grinned widely. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten her original purpose. Now she remembered, and she would not forget it again. The elf said thrill-seekers never lived past forty. Looks like she was going to have to test that.

Description
There was work to be done. Visiting the tavern every day was slowly no longer becoming an option. Money was scarce at the best of times, and she had so little of it. Sure, she had a job now, but what good it be unless she could actually perform it? Chantal sighed as she poked at the ash in her campfire. She shamelessly indulged, that was it. How long had it been since she had a full meal that she didn't have to cook herself? Too long. Plus there was ale. It was too tempting. After being sure that the fire was out, she stood. Well, time to get to it.
She first went to check her nearby traps. She tread carefully, gently stepping over twigs and dancing around bushes. It would do her no good if she caught an animal and then spooked it before she could slay it. She hardly breathed as she walked through the forest. She saw tracks in front of her. Deer, from the looks of it. Oh, maybe a doe or a stag got caught. Maker willing, she wouldn't have to go hungry tonight. Chantal crept along at a snail's pace, and paused when she heard some frantic rustling. She grinned. Almost forgetting to breath, she scaled the tree closest to her trap. Oh, it was a stag. A young one, probably just left its mother's side. Its leg was caught in a rope noose, and it shook the tree it was tied to, trying so desperately to be free again. I'm sorry, she thought to the deer, drawing her daggers as quietly as possible. It knew it was in danger, and that almost made having to kill it worse.
Almost.
She leaped from the branches, and her daggers sunk into the stag's flesh. It cried pitifully and its life slowly drained. In a final act of defiance however, it looked back at her. It didn't buck or try to throw her off. It just stared at her. It forced her to watch as its life slipped away into oblivion. "I'm sorry," she mumbled quietly as the animal fell to the ground with a soft thud. Such was the life of a hunter, especially when she chose a most intimate way of killing.
Stripping flesh from bone was a swift, if not mundane, task, and it took her little over a half hour to complete. She was starting to remember why she opted for visiting the tavern again. It was something new. Something exciting. Even some encounters were not entirely pleasurable.
She took her time in completely her other tasks. The tedious challenge of removing flesh from fur for her blankets, the collecting of more dry firewood and kindle, the collecting of drinkable water. But no matter how slowly she went about them, it took her little time at all. Well, the skin would have to dry. But, she would still have the afternoon off, as some would say. What would she do? Return to the tavern and dabble in useless conversation again? She had been so out of touch with civilization, she realized, that the rowdiness of the day before actually bothered her some. Too many people, too much noise. Though, thinking about it on her own, she couldn't tell what she preferred more. Being in this unbreakable silence without even a pet to talk to, or being surrounded by the drunkards and the fighting. It was a mind boggling conundrum. She liked having someone to talk to, but she also liked being out on her own. She liked people-- At least, she thought she liked people.
Chantal found herself sitting on a log, forcing herself to look through her memories. Did she like people in the past? An odd question to ask oneself, but a question she needed to answer. It was an answer she should have known already, like the many answers she had given that Orlesian elf the other night. She had drunkenly told that elf that she met only one other of his kind before him. Was that really true? She believed it was. She couldn't think of any other elves she had actually taken the time to talk to in the past. She didn't talk to them and avoided them like the plague, because of everything her father and his army buddies had said to her about them. So she led herself to believe. But the harder she thought about it, the more and more she realized that she could not remember a thing from her life before she ran. Even the last ten years were difficult to recall. She could remember certain events, or even certain feelings that she had, but she could remember nothing else. Days of her childhood blurred together senselessly. It was challenging to tell the difference between an actual memory and a mere fantasy her mind had conjured up to fill in the blanks. She could see vague images of the places her father took her, but no faces. Maybe some hair, and the random shock of red or blond or white. Sometimes even a tattoo, or some other distinguishing marking like a scar or birthmark. But never a face. Only those of her family. And a particular Chasind Wilder that she may have fallen in love with once. How many people had she met in her lifetime and then had simply forgotten? Had she unknowingly lied to the elf? Was her life really so mundane that she could not retain a single true and normal memory?
She laughed mirthlessly at herself. "What an idiot I must be," she cooed. "And how boring my life must have been." She laid back in the frosted grass and stared up at the trees. Nothing else mattered while she was trying to survive. Maybe that was why she forgot everything else. But something did matter. A prize bigger than anything she had ever tried stealing before. Something far more precious than a shiny trinket or a gem. She pulled out a locket from beneath her shirt and pried it open. It resisted, green gunk causing the latch to stick together. Hm, seems she'll have to clean it again soon. And maybe see if she could find someone artistic enough to replace the drawings inside. But she grinned widely. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten her original purpose. Now she remembered, and she would not forget it again. The elf said thrill-seekers never lived past forty. Looks like she was going to have to test that.