Connor remained as still as possible, barely breathing as he watched his prey. A boar, a young adult one, from the looks of it. The tusks would be easily traded for goods, or he could turn them into spearheads. The hide would be good for a shirt for the winter. His belt hung with his catch of the day, mostly birds, but this boar could feed a family for weeks. He couldn’t risk missing it, he’d been tracking it all day.<br/><br/>He waited for the boar to start drinking from a puddle before silently creeping forward, placing his bare feet on the soft others of ground and avoiding branches. He waited until he was within a safe reach before lunging with his spear, piercing the boar between its ribs. It collapsed quickly, a quick death.<br/><br/>He picked the beast up, starting the walk back to the village. By the time he got back, he was covered in sweat, but he didn’t hesitate to get to work, taking the boar to the butchering zone and starting to skin it.<br/><br/>Penelope had a slightly similar, yet quite different, start to her day. Instead of stabbing and killing a boar, she was sewing wounds shut, applying poultices, and digging out an arrowhead from one poor man who had a hunting accident. He’d live, but he’d have a very poor few weeks.<br/><br/>As she left her shelter in search of fresh air, she noticed Baxter and Alexander approaching camp, each with seafood, and Connor in the butchering area with a boar. They would all eat well that night. Penelope herself usually ate the harvest from her personal garden, and what people gave her in thanks for her services, though she mended wounds for free. She was no hunter, she couldn’t catch her own food.