A hunter drew in and held a heated breath. Slowly, the warm exhale vented through his nostrils, diffusing to covertly join the ambient mist that surrounded his camouflaged ground-perch. The rain grew from morning mist to a hail of pelting drops that assaulted the waterproof tarp covering his position. Another careful breath. Quietly, slowly the hunter unscrewed the release near the head of his gunstock. A stainless steel rod swing down, rotating from a point just under the dark-polished barrel of his medium-caliber rifle. The bottom came to an inverted, metallic cone that was firmly pressed into the soft forest floor. Steady, cautious fingers played with various clamps to adjust the telescoping, nested pipes to achieve the correct elevation. The deer that walked into view was oblivious to the motions Dane Kuger made, orchestrating its demise. Strong, calloused fingers lingered at the end of the scope, waiting for the deer to look away before lifting the protective lens cap and disappearing with sly, dexterity under the tarp.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/attachments/hunter-02-jpg.5634/" title="hunter-02.JPG">
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</div></div><br/>Had someone stumbled upon Dane, they would have likely missed the marksman; the artificial blind blending with the masterful effect of a Marine sniper. The moss and branches he'd collected and fastened to his make-shift tarp created a seamless roof over his hidden position. The man all but vanished to the human eye, though other senses were not as easily fooled. Dane had been out in the cold drizzle of Merrill Island for two days without a single hoof print or track. On the third day, Dane decided to settle down and let the quarries come to him. Sure enough, within an hour of vanishing from sight a deer wandered into his sights. Dane closed one eye and rotated the elevation adjustment dial three clicks for optic deflection.<i>Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five yards, </i>he counted. As luck would have it, the quarry walked toward Dane a few steps, exposing the sensitive front of its chest. It was the perfect shot — every hunters dream. Dane's finger slipped off the guard and hovered over the curved trigger. When, suddenly, a sound filled his ears which vibrated obnoxiously in his pocket.<br/><br/><span style="font-size: 12px">BUZZZ, BUZZZ ...... BUZZZ, BUZZZZZZZZZ.</span><br/><br/><i>Fuck it all! </i>Dane seethed. His concentration broke, a cloud of steam erupted from his mask. Deft fingers reached down and silenced the damn phone. Only two people had his number on that phone — his brother, Harold, and his police friend, Mark. Dane had seen both the previous weekend, though for macabre reasons. Harold had been experiencing myriad problem that never seemed to improve. Dane helped as best able, though Harold seemed let him to sound advice and wisdom, choosing instead to pursue options that felt safer but further entrenched and mired the man down. The tragic death of their parents in South Dakota started Harold's downward descent. Dane harbored his own grief and pain, but tried to take life in stride. He always knew he was made of stronger stuff than Harold, but brotherly love refused to abandon Harold to the hard life that sought to chew them up. On an overcast Thursday afternoon, however, Harold's problem caught up with him and he found a solution at the end of a noose. Dane and Mark attended his funeral, acting as pall-bearers for the dearly departed.<br/><br/>The funeral felt cheap and modestly attended, primarily because it was both. Times had been tough for Dane, his meager pension hardly covering his basic expenses. Mark had warned him to not expect much from the Seattle Police Department, though Dane thought after ten-years of loyal service he'd receive more than $275.00 a month. Dane soon learned that the decade of favors and goodwill he'd fostered in the community ended up supporting him in his hour of need.<br/><br/>Seattle, for instance, was dominated more by Asian gangs, which made the mafia attempts to coerce Plano Construction seemingly laughable. The Bureau detectives waved the incidents as non-violent and therefore not a credible case. Dane, on the other hand, heeded the call and intervened, tracking down numerous capos to an abandoned warehouse in Everett Heights. He raided the facility, calling for back-up only after two men had been killed and several more surrendered to him. The police detectives, naturally, took credit for the sting, calling it an "operation years in the making." Dane was not decorated, being — if anything — reviled for his "uncooperative and reckless actions, which posed a threat to the police force and wider community." That was the final judgment on his permanent, professional record and helped push Dane closer to an early retirement — Dane suspected the Department's lethargic response was due to strategic pay-offs by the mafia, and Dane's heroics upset the profitable graft.<br/><br/>But, where the authorities found nothing but contempt for Dane, Plano Construction could hardly contain their charity. When Dane found himself on the brink of homelessness, the construction company built him a modest cabin on a defaulted property near High Valley, at the foot of Squak Mountain Park. They enlisted the services of their staff architect (whose tires had been slashed by the capos) along with their finest woodworkers to create a dwelling worthy of their deep gratitude. It was one of the few times the stolid man found himself choked up. The company wrote off the gift as "community investment" and the lack of fanfare suited Dane perfectly. The cedar house was warm and dry, all that the struggling man needed. They even installed a permanent internet connection to facilitate Dane's budding private detective agency.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">_____________________________________________​</div><br/><br/>A rumble of deep thunder woke Dane from the mental and emotional cinema he tried to avoid recalling. The rain had eased to a slight tapping, which (ironically) broadcasted the plastic nature of his tarp. The deluge and accompanying noise, by contrast, masked the sound of any movement or accidental shifting that snapped a twig and betrayed his location. Dane's blue eyes flicking above the scope, confirming that the deer had heard his phone and bolted. He saw an animal before him, but it wasn't a deer. His brow gathered in fear as he peered through the scope and spied a gray wolf. The creature was no more than fifty feet from him, it sniffed at the ground, presumably hunting the scent of the deer that had just passed by. Dane's heart pumped, because he knew the terrible situation that found him alone in that Northwest forest. A bear would have been disastrous, though a wolf was hardly better luck.<br/><br/>Being found by a lone wolf was cause for concern; being found by a hungry wolf was worse, being found by a pack of wolves was a virtual death sentence. Two of those three scenarios resulted in Dane fighting for his very life, and the chances of surviving either were slim. Dane had firearms at his disposal, but the rifle was bolt-action with limited reloading and the pistol only 9mm. The fear stemmed less from hitting the wolf (or wolves) and more from how much damage the enraged predator would incur before succumbing to small-arms fire. He might lose an arm, he might lose his throat — either way, there was no ambulance or hospital for one hundred miles in every direction.<br/><br/>Dane unsnapped the leather strap holding his 9mm pistol inside his belt holster, quickly glancing around to answer the horrid question of whether they were alone. The small sigh of relief at not seeing more canines evaporated when he returned his vision to the wolf and found it watching him. Whether through acute hearing or preternatural sense, the killing machine knew it was not alone. Dane felt a burn of desperate courage burn in his chest and shoved the pistol into his empty chest holster. He prayed to God Almighty that the wolf was, indeed, alone and re-chambered a round, taking careful aim. Looking through the scope of a rifle should have empowered Dane, but the close-up view of the beast had an opposite, enervating effect. His hand trembled, and he flexed it to gain better composure. The wolf had green eyes, with a corner of one eye shaded in hazel. Those primal eyes patiently, confidently watched him for several minutes. Time stood still, and Dane's finger hovered over the trigger once again.<br/><br/>A low howl echoed in the distance and the wolf perked its ears. The staring contest over, the gray beast galloped off to the left, quickly disappearing in the dense maze of dark, low hung spruce and fir trees. Dane waited a minute before reaching his arm upright to push away the tarp cover. The rain had stopped some time ago, though the man's face dripped with perspiration. Breathing the fresh, cold air invigorated Dane against the rush of adrenaline that he finally perceived as it flooded his heart. Taking several deep breaths, he quickly began to exit that damned forest. Methodically, Dane enclosed his rifle in its weather-proof case and slung it over his shoulder. Danger still a possibility, Dane walked out of the wild tense, wielding his firearm in front of him in a twin-handed grip. He still wore the tarp as a kind of cloak; it ruffled in the sharp, cold breeze as he neared the island's edge and coast. The rattling noise could have alerted predators to Danes presence, but he didn't care — he just wanted to leave Merrill Island.<br/><br/>Dane found his small boat in the shallow cove where he'd left it, tied to a gnarled cedar root that jutted outward in a loop. Thankfully, no bears had found his craft and waited to ambush him, and Dane pushed off from shore before his luck changed for the worse. The tide had come up the silty shoals, its return a reminder that fortunes change against the killing instinct — the epic cycle of recurring inversions: night and day, winter and summer, how the hunter can easily become the hunted. Dane swallowed thickly and brushed off the chill that crept down his spine, pushing out the days memory as the boat embarked. The island shrank in the distance behind him, eventually merging into the white, frothy wake that kicked up behind his diesel, outboard motor.<br/><br/>The trip home took three hours, but eventually Dane docked his boat at the public wharf. He started back, carrying his ton of gear in one miserable trip of labor. Though his strength was far from fading, he couldn't bear returning to the boat when a heated house and soft bed were so close. The only thing better would be a warm meal and a warm woman. Dane chuckled to himself, knowing neither would be waiting for him. The twilight and mist enshrouded Dane's evening, and he placed his phone upon the kitchen island. He didn't bother finding out who tried to contact him, promising himself that he'd deal with it in the morning.<br/><br/>Sleep called to Dane, and he answered the moment his head fell to the pillow.