Jackal reached slowly for an arrow. He nocked it with a consideration for the rustle of his clothing, the sound of his movements. Through the brush ahead, movement. A rabbit. His dinner.
He was on his own tonight, maybe tomorrow too. His brothers were all down south, on his orders. It was time for them to move on, find themselves some ripe villages for the plundering, and he was out seeing what there was to see of their possibilities. He stayed off the roads when he could. He was a mordecai, and too noticeable even besides that. His looks ran too much in his Adelan and Connlaoth blood.
So he was camping out here alone again, and the gods had seen fit to send him an unwary rabbit as prey. He held steady, aimed his shot, and let the arrow fly.