High in the trees, a human figure walks almost effortlessly from branch to branch.  careful to approach from downwind of the hunting party.  From the moment the helicopter roared overhead, he knew there would be rough times ahead.  He crouches down on a branch, perching completely still as he watches the hunters.<br/><br/>In his right hand is a crude bow, the wood still green from being cut from the tree.  He knows there is no logical way such a bow should even fire, but he knew logic wasn't applying.  The spirits of the forest guided his hand in making the thing, there was practically a guarantee in his mind that it would shoot true as long as it benefited the forest.<br/><br/>Looking closely, he saw three of the tracking wolves.  To hunters, the wolves would be essential, not a lifeline, but their loss should be enough to discourage them.  He pulls back his first arrow, a syringe rigged to its tip.  Dying wolves make too much noise, he would be discovered.  The syrum in the syrenge was from his medical kit, It's mix of plainkillers should be enough to either send it's victim into either overwhelming rage or overwhelming apathy.<br/><br/>He choses his target, one of the wolves the others aren't watching.  Just as another truck pulls up to the camp, he pulls and lets the arrow fly with a high twang.  The heavily tipped arrow soars throught the air, landing almost vertically on the wolf's shoulder.  The wolf reaches for the arrow, bulling it out of her shoulder immediately, but instead of reacting, she merely looks at the now empty arrow, shrugs, and tosses the thing off over her shoulder with a giggle.<br/><br/>Feign sighs, half glad and half disappointed that the drug didn't cause any carnage.  He knocks the next arrow and waits for the other wolf to go unnoticed for a second.  At about this time, three more wolves come into view.  Feign feels a pang of regret, as he only made four drug-tipped arrows to fire.  Clearly, the plan was going to get more complicated.