`a hunting we will go [nettle.closed]

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.