"Fucking ARROWS!" The screech of infuriated pain split the silence like a gunshot. Frightened grouse exploded from a low-lying shrub, panicked into flight; nearby a lone rabbit thumped once in warning and darted for the safety of its burrow. The voice - distinctly male in tone, but rough from lack of use - erupted again, the same phrase repeated once...then twice...then three times before wheedling off into a rasping growl.
The owner of this voice was sitting back on his heels within the deep fork of a heavily leafed oak tree some twelve feet above the forest floor, largely concealed from view. The dusky gray pelt of his right flank had gone stiff and tacky with drying blood, a tear rent in his leather tunic. The cause of his tantrum lay across one weathered palm: a poorly made iron arrowhead, still attached to a broken shaft of maple.
He inspected the barbed arrow point for a moment with a lip-curl of loathing, ears flattened against his skull. The wound was hardly serious - soon enough it would be just another scar in the collection - but that did little to cool his anger. The wood-strider closed a fist around the remains of the arrow and drove it into the bark of the oak with a satisfying
thwuck. Satisfying, yes...well, save for the impact sending a fresh dart of pain through his flank. This drew another flurry of questionable language from the weary creature, teeth bared in a pained grimace. Yes, fuck arrows...and fuck the startled woodsman who let a feathered shaft fly the instant he saw antlers. Fuck the lot of 'em!
But not literally, mind you; this fellow still has standards.
(Character profile and portrait at link below)
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1maIerSk-MVTX5Fx9MbHYaI6qbTzZdWJOe833KhJyimQ/edit?usp=sharing