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It glistened. He had been searching his head for the most suiting word to describe the beauty of the Duskbird he was hunting, his piercing eyes narrowed in concentration. It wasn't so much that the word had escaped him, no; it was more a combined effect of the weight of the magewood bow in his hand, the tension of the sinew bowstring as he pulled it taut. The tree he perched in swayed beneath him as a breeze touched it, his weightless form not hindering it at all. That was part of what made his presence just so subtle, the way nature seemed to embrace him rather than making allowances for him.

All of these thoughts crossed his mind in an instant. He had grasped the word, had gained that small appreciation for the creature he preyed upon. As far as he could tell, the Duskbird hadn't noticed him, his cloak of leaves draped over his head, his moving with the pull of the air. He was not perfectly still, but rather moved as if he was truly just another branch in the oak. He took one more moment to drink in the thing he stalked with such care.

The Duskbird was roughly three meters from talon to tail, probably seven or eight from beak to butt. A larger specimen to be sure, but not so large that it defied the nature of the species. Its feathers were a beautiful sapphire that faded back to a pitch black every few seconds. The creature's large beak appeared to be made of soot-darkened steel. He knew well the power of that mouth's embrace, of the terrible tongue that hid beneath. The feathers themselves rustled in the cool autumn gust, betraying the armored carapace beneath. Talons clicked across the hard bark of the birch it rested on, but they were hard to see; a smoky effect rippled around the lower half of the bird. However, to him, the most disconcerting aspect of the beast was its eyes. A jagged scar ran from the back of its head, through its eye, and across its beak like half of a second mouth. The scarred eye glowed an ambient gold, and its other eye was a black hole.

But it was looking at him.

He wasn't sure how he knew this, but the cogs in his brain suddenly snapped into place and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt that his quarry was aware of his presence. It knew it was being hunted, and it knew he was in that tree, with his eye on the longbow's sight and his arm pulled back, ready to take the shot, ready to finish this hunt and return to Summit a hero, the stuff of legends. And it was letting it happen. He wondered, briefly, if the Duskbird meant to go willingly. No, he realized grimly, this is a challenge, and I will rise to it.

He breathed out, breathed in, and, muttering words more ancient than the eldest of his race, breathed out. The sinew cord snapped from his fingers and time seemed to slow: the glow of the barbed missile as it left the string, the aura he could see around it in his mind's eye. The enchanted bolt phased through leaves, branches, and whatever else got in its way. Silently, like a knife through butter. He was reminded of a warsong that had been passed down through the taverns of his homeland.

_As sunrise sparkles on light'nd dew

The beasts of day arise

And though the wait has made me sore

It hasn't touched my eyes

The hunted crosses through my sight

Resolve is back anew

If aim and magic's at my back

My arrow's flight be true_

The Duskbird exploded from its branch. His arrow whistled past, slamming into the trunk of the tree right behind where its head had been seconds before. Though it was dusk and the light was beginning to fade, he saw the shadowy torpedo that was his mark already screaming toward him. He was just out of his nest as it splintered into a million pieces, thanking every god he could think of that he hadn't been a breath slower. Making use of the tangle of vines and branches, he slid nimbly into the ground cover below, the creature a hair's breadth behind the whole way.