<strong>Name:</strong>Aelfgar<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Reach, just outside of Markarth<br/><strong>Time:</strong>Early evening, dusk.<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Drake, open<br/><br/><br/>If life didn't always have another amaze beyond the next ridge or copse of trees, then Aelfgar was fooled these last sixteen years of traipsing through every terrain imaginable, always hunting for the next fur or skin.  The huge, knotted-muscled, but surprisingly deft-footed man had been hoping to get a few more bear pelts before reaching Markarth, but even his skill at trapping had come up short in this part of the Reach.  He'd traveled it before--always aware of the Foresworn and their dim view of Nords and the two people's shared history.  He'd normally done well in avoiding them, but he'd occasionally found a trap looted, and to keep things as smooth as possible, he just assumed that such theft was a form of tribute from him to keep operating unmolested.<br/><br/>But here, not more than seventy yards away, across the rocky, broken terrain, stood something much more valuable than a bear.  Well, the big man didn't know exactly what the name of it was, as he'd never seen one of its color or size before.  However, he knew, whether magicked or born naturally, it had the blood of a lynx in it, and lynx fur was fine and soft and always in demand by lazy, warm-blooded nobles and merchant-types from nearby lands.  It looked to be nearly as big as a sabre cat, and that meant its pelt would be as good as at least eight normal-sized lynx.  He first smelled the air, feeling the first flickers and twitches of the blood-hunger coming upon him, and found nothing else predatory within range of his nose.  Then he removed his massive war hammer from his back, hefting it with both skill and ease in his great, calloused hands.  His eyes narrowed, and his lip curled enough to reveal a canine that was more than a little larger than the average man's.<br/><br/>He made his way towards the beautiful beast, silent on his feet--his armor was stowed on his pack horse and war-mount, hidden in a tiny box canyon a quarter-mile away.  Besides, he'd always felt that wearing armor for a hunt was disrespectful to the spirit of the animal, and might keep it from returning to inhabit another body, thus leaving him with less game to hunt for in future seasons.  And he had another, even deeper reason for respecting the big, carnivorous animal.  His plan, as he'd used it for many years now with predators, was to get close enough to catch its attention, then engage it in the pristine, glorious competition of hunter against hunter.  He used no bow or any ranged weapon, and while he sometimes used a spear, that was for reach, and not throwing.  No, his own blood and honor demanded that when sacrificing a creature on par with himself as far as predatory instincts, the match be respectful and honest under the sky and all the gods that may be watching.<br/><br/>But the beast was a cat, and he was certain it would sense or spot him soon enough.  Instead, he greeted it with something of a mix between a war-cry and a roar, reveling in the feel of the cold air as he sucked it in, and the vibration of his chest as he bellowed forth his challenge to it.  A smile crossed his lips and remained, and he was growing fully into the joy of the hunt already.  "Come now, cat!  Let us find who holds claim to your fur..."  He eased, then tightened his grip on his great blunt weapon, used to protect the integrity of the pelts he tanned and sold--the fewer holes the better.