Many paid high prices for the beautifully skinned pelts of the animals he had slain, the ivory he had painstakingly cut. George had grown rich on the spoils of war. He had gloried in the scream of a great elephant as he destroyed the beast with a shotgun blast, leaving its crying tuskless calf to fend alone. Polar bears, rhinos, lions, tigers, panthers, the leopard. George had travelled the world, slaughtering the great beasts of the tundra, the forest, the desert. Thousands of creatures had met their end at his hands. As a stocky, sandy haired teenager, he had felt ecstatic delight as his gunshot blasted forth, forever ending the life of a tawny antlered stag. At barely eight years old George had gleefully revelled as he watched his father’s long-limbed hounds tear apart a screaming red coated fox. As a child in his native England he had known all along that it was his destiny. Born and bred for the pursuit and the kill. As his expensive leather walking boots dug into the baking earth, George knew that he would not miss the white lion again.Ĭarillion was a true hunter. The fresh tracks of the beast were imprinted in the soil. But all this discomfort was not enough to dissuade him. His throat was dry as the sun-bleached bones he had encountered in the shade of a marula tree moments before. George could feel patches of perspiration pooling under his armpits, the old, checked shirt he was wearing, sticking to his back like a large web. Sweat trickled in fine beads down his creased forehead the burning midday heat was relentless. The bone weapon of the yordle juts out from its trunk.George Carillion stalked through the sparse undergrowth of the African wilderness: the tanned stock of the shotgun heavy against the crook of his shoulder. Ahead, a giant tree crashes across my path. The deafening crack of stone and wood echoes all around. I barely get ten paces when a roar shakes me to my very spine. He turns and scrambles for it, jumping frantically. I snatch the weapon out of his hand and expertly throw it into a tree, impaling it high amongst the branches. After a few short seconds, he turns his head and, with what I think could be a smile, he holds up his small boomerang. I rear back and let out a roar, the wind whipping the yordle's fur and the ground rumbling beneath us. I need to be more insistent, good omen or no. As I try to pick up his scent, a distraction. I traverse the difficult terrain with ease, trying to pick up any sign of my quarry. I nod in appreciation at the young yordle and venture onward. He runs on all fours with a bone boomerang in hand, quickly stopping in front of me. The yordle's large ears perk up and face toward me. A tiny fish splashes out of the stream and the creature scrambles for it, diving gleefully into the rushing water. There I see a small shock of orange fur, crouching, waiting. Passing through the clearing, I follow the sound of a stream to get my bearings once more. I thrill in anticipation of finally standing before this creature. How can it appear like a hurricane then fade into the jungle like the morning mist? How can a creature with this level of strength disappear so easily? And yet, even though it has left this unmistakable trail of destruction, I have been unable to lay my eye upon it. This thing brushed them aside like they were twigs. These giant wooden sentinels have stood over this land for countless ages, their iron-like hides untouched by the flimsy axes of anyone foolish enough to attempt to cut them down. I step into a misshapen circle of splintered trees. Finally, worthy prey.Īs I stalk my prize through the jungle, I begin to see the damage this thing has wrought. Each track is the size of a tusklord its claws like scimitars. ![]() I was certain there were no challenges left here, but now there is something new. I've hunted every creature this jungle has to offer.
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