`a hunting we will go [nettle.closed]

[`ruth]

ruth walcott

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LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF, I'M ALL SMILES, YOU MAY KNOW ME AS THE FORMER LIFE IS WILD.

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I JUST GET THOSE STUPID BUTTERFLIES, I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS YOU QUITE DO, OH WHAT YOU DO.

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The forest pine needles crunched softly under the young female’s shoes, nearly soundless and undetectable. Her many knives, some still wet with fresh blood, swung silently at her hips. Ruth’s body walked with just the right amount of rigidness, each movement so carefully directed toward the goal of being a ghost in the night. The moon shone brilliantly overhead, however the thick cluster of sky-high trees did much in the way of blocking it out. Shimmers of the white light broke through the canopy of the forest often, lighting up the tanned face of a small child, making her blue eyes glimmer with determination. Her blond curls were pulled neatly back, twisted into a bun toward the top of her head; thus leaving little to block her vision. Black fingerless gloves framed Ruth’s slender hand as it curled about the wooden handle of her axe, the heavy weapon resting comfortably on her right shoulder. Her left hand clutched two small rabbits by their ears. The animals swung to the beat of her steps, slowly draining of their life’s blood through a puncture in their necks. The young girl was dressed in black cargo pants for convenience, and a gray jacket that showed signs of severe amounts of use. Overall, it was quite obvious: Ruth was out hunting for a poverty stricken family.

Jerking suddenly as a bolt of fur raced across the branches of the closest pine tree, Ruth snagged the first knife she could reach and stuck it in her mouth. The heavy axe dropped onto the ground as the young girl climbed the adjacent tree with alarming speed, turned sharply as she reached the appropriate height, grabbed the knife from her mouth and flung it at the scurrying animal. The whole ordeal happened within half a minute, leaving the victimized squirrel to fall several feet to the ground: where it landed almost inaudibly. After that, Ruth remained crouched on the branch, one arm wrapped securely around the trunk of the pine tree and the other resting on her knee. Slowly Ruth closed her eyes, her breathing picking up as the exertion from the slaying of the animal caught up with her. She did not enjoy the killing of the innocent animals, but of course she had to admit the rush of it all was natural now: almost needed. Her eyes opened, softer than before. Her gaze found the dead squirrel, almost surely obscured by the darkness. ”You little things are fast, aren’t you?” spoke Ruth between breaths. Her voice was high and sweet, neither hateful nor completely cleared of guilt.

Taking one last deep breath, Ruth jumped out onto the trunk of her tree and slid down. Her feet hit the pines below with a satisfying crunch. The sounds and smells of the oh-so-familiar forest were as close to happiness as she’d been in years. This place was her home, and it bore both her happiness and her depression. The little thing, battered with bruises so conveniently hidden by the dark of the night, slowly made her way over to the slain animal, picking it up by its tail and removing her knife at once. After the bloody knife had been replaced back at her hip, she walked back over and reclaimed her axe and two rabbits. A small frown had been implanted into her features; her shoulders lower, her head not quite as high. She hated this, this starvation. She hated the peacekeepers. She even hated hating things. Silently the girl continued on into the night, in search of yet another kill to bring home.

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[nettle]

nettle quinn

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I N T O T H E N I G H T
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Faint rays of moonlight penetrated the dense canopy of District 7's woods and created before a lithe figure shrouded in darkness a path to follow into the heart of the forest. The figure advanced with such fluidity that its movements between the trees sounded like the faint rustling of leaves, or a short evening's breeze. Only those with trained ears could detect the figures presence, but then, catching a glimpse of the figure beneath the shadows was another story. None ever did, and the figure was looking to keep it that way. The soft crunch of hooves atop a mixture of pine needles and snow caused the figure to climb the tree nearest to it. The tree was an ancient pine with levels of slender branches that were covered by a layer of moss and powdered snow. Camouflaged by the branches, with the exception of a thin slice of moonlight, the figure carefully removed its sable hood and exposed the hunter underneath.

Nettle released the hood from her thin fingers and silently lowered her steady hands toward her pelvic bone. Below that was her tightly woven belt of leather, and attached to it were her father's old pair of tomahawks. In the ghostly light the teenager's ovular face was visible, as were the light brown freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her pouted lips were pressed close together making her appear all the more serious while her dark eyes focused on the soft, speckled fur that was only a short distance from her. In the deep recesses of her mind Nettle could hear the shrill screams of protest forbidding her to take the life of the infant deer. It did seem unfair to murder one so young and lonely, but the growl that quickly erupted from her stomach told Nettle otherwise. It's not a waste, she reminded herself as she unhooked her right tomahawk. Lowering her chin into her older brother's jacket, Nettle felt around with her cold lips until she felt the tiny, wood carving. Grabbing it between her teeth she held the charm from her necklace–a wooden nettle leaf–and with the aid of her lips placed it inside of her mouth. She did this with every kill for good luck.

Raising her right arm above her ear Nettle lined the oiled blade with the fawn's slim neck. Before releasing the weapon the huntresses spun the charm about her tongue once, then released. The blade quietly soared above pine branches and reflected the moon's eerie light against its polished surface before taking a steep dive and burying itself within the fawn's warm flesh. There was no fight. The fawn was dead on impact. Moving both swiftly and noiselessly, Nettle descended from the tree and arrived at her kill in under a minute. Pulling herself down onto one knee she removed the bloodied weapon from the fawn and with two delicate fingers she pulled the infant's eyelids over its lusterless eyes and sent its spirit on its way with a short prayer of thanks.

Nettle worked quickly to reattach the tomahawk to her belt before lifting the plump creature from the ground that had been made soggy by the fawn's blood. Looking at the stain Nettle knew it wouldn't be safe to leave until she had disguised the scene of the crime. Only when the blood was covered by a new layer of snow and dirt did the huntress feel well enough to make her way back toward the tree where hung her other kill; a squirrel and rabbit. After about a few minutes of walking Nettle broke free of a line of trees then stopped dead in her tracks with the limp fawn slung over her shoulders.

A few feet in front of her stood a tiny figure with golden hair. On the figure Nettle could make out an array of weapons as deadly as her tomahawks. The figure's shoulders were lowered as was its head, however, Nettle was no fool and knew that its head, although lowered, was not low enough and had probably caught a glimpse of her. Keeping silent, the sixteen-year-old's left hand moved defensively toward her weapon as a chilled breeze blew between her and the stranger. The light that silhouetted the figure due to its height, instead illuminated Nettle and gave away her long, dark hair that was braided into a fishtail, her brother's sable hunting jacket that kept hidden her slight frame, her dark jeans, and worn hunting boots. Whatever this person wanted Nettle was sure it had nothing to do with her, so she stood stoically and waited for the shadow to make its move.

Prepare yourself Nettle, her mind cautioned, and keep calm.

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