A hearty thump reverberated throughout the otherwise silent forest, stirring the morning-birds singing away in the canopy above.

Malt brushed the sweat off his brow, taking a moment to lean against a nearby willow. He took a look at his handiwork. Half a dozen or so flint stakes sat embedded inside of a sturdy oak, placed at more or less even intervals along its rough bark.

He slipped his little wooden mallet back into the straw basket hanging from his shoulder. Then, with agility that he was struggling to grow accustomed to, he scurried his way up the trunk, using the little pegs as footholds as he did so.

He stopped just short of where the trunk began branching off into thick foliage, melding in with the adjacent branches in order to form the aforementioned canopy.

A small sigh escaped between his pursed lips, despite the fact that he was hardly out of breath in the first place. One hand stayed grasped firmly onto a peg whilst his legs straddled the narrowing trunk, making sure he was firmly attached.

He relaxed his upper body, allowing his other hand to hang freely, fingers pointing to the forest bed now over fifteen feet below.

This was the perfect in which to take advantage of a beastman’s strengths.

Beastmen could scale such trees nearly instantly, in fact Malt’d heard stories of beastmen using trees as shelter when on longer hunting trips.

These elevated refuges were meant to provide hunters with safety from beasts, as well as convenient scouting locations and easy access to the canopy above.

Though this time, they were going to be used to hunt a much more dangerous, and numerous prey.

He reached into his straw basket and brought out another spike, running it into the tree with just enough force to make it stick. He unlatched a crude carved hook from his belt and attached it to an overhead branch, making sure the hemp tether was still looped around his waist.

With both arms now free, he took the mallet out once again, using one hand to hold the spike steady and bringing the tool back.

With one impressive strike, the peg burst into a thousand tiny shards, inciting a myriad of curses from Malt.

He flung his hand about as if he’d brushed against a steaming pot, noting the drops of blood being thrown around as he did.

Not taking any heed to the minor injury, he brought out another spike, this time being excessively gentle as he drove it into the wood. This wasn’t the first time this had happened that morning, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. In fact, he’d wager that it’d take the better part of a year to grow accustomed to this newfound strength.

Confirming that the peg was in fact secure, he pulled himself further upward, partially into the dense cloud of branches and leaves. He pushed the tree limbs apart, sighing in relief as he laid eyes on what he’d been looking for.

A bundle of crude javelins sat loosely fastened to a branch, tight enough so that it wouldn’t fall if left untouched, but loose enough so that it could be ripped free at a moment’s notice.

Beside it were a few simple slings and a small burlap sack containing round stones, ammunition. Another sack hung beside it, containing some jerky as well as strips of cloth that would have to do as bandages when the time came.

He reached behind the sack of provisions and pulled out a water skin. He sniffed its carved bone mouth, taking a little sip to make sure that it hadn’t somehow become tainted.

Some rather violent winds had shaken up the woodland that night, leading him to believe that the little hunter’s abodes he’d spent the last week erecting would be ruined.

Luckily they hadn’t, which meant that preparations were still going smoothly.

A particularly loud growl erupted from Malt’s stomach, perhaps stirred by the water. A troublesome expression crossed his face, he'd eaten what seemed like an entire family of rabbit, along with enough barley gruel to make a grown man sick just a few hours prior.

Grumbling, he dropped down onto the ground, bending his knees like a spring in order to absorb the force.

Jackie had been providing him with a prodigious amount of food (from which he did not know the origin) as part of the unofficially contract that they had made.

At first he felt glutinous, having to eat such an excessive amount every day. But after unintentionally missing a meal, and experiencing the dreadful lethargy that followed, he quickly began to realize that this was just going to become the new norm for him.

He picked up the wooden crutches that had been laid uselessly behind him and tucked them under his arm, making off in the direction of the village.

As he strolled by, he duly took note of the shafts of pale sunlight seeping through the branches overhead, as well as the drops of dew hanging onto nearly every surface around.

What he was really interested in, however, were the little hints of human/beastman involvement scattered through the woody landscape.

When he’d first arrived here, everything besides the village simply seemed like dense, untouched wilderness. But after wandering around a bit, and hearing little stories from various hunters throughout the day, he’d come to realize that much of the forest around was in fact just an extension of the settlement.

Barely visible piles of grey ash and soot could be found mixed into the damp soil if one looked hard enough, remnants of campfires that had been erected throughout the years.

Little scratches on the trees. Of course some of these were simply created naturally, whether it be a small animal or otherwise, but the larger ones could easily be identified as man made.

Some might’ve been caused by a hunter or skinner using the particular tree as a skinning surface, whilst others were clearly made by children, crude drawings and names of people that may be adults, or even long dead at this point.

He’d been told that even children could navigate such woodland with ease, even on the darkest of nights. In fact, he’d only recently realized that beatmen had much keener sight than humans, especially during the night.

These factors were precisely why making an outer defensive layer was so viable.

If they’d just holed up in Nasir’s home (a fortress at this point really), the enemy could surround the village hidden by the forest. The fact that Nasir’s house, being near the center of the gathering of cottages, was in range of arrow fire at nearly every angle, didn’t help either.

Having skirmishers roaming the woodland around would make sure that the deserters wouldn’t have a chance to amass into large attack forces. The idea was to have them trickle in, and to cause confusion amongst the attackers.

It was currently Malt’s job to make their jobs easier.

Even walking through the forest now, he could just point out a couple hunting posts scattered throughout, some older than most of the people in the village, and some that he had set up himself.

A little smirk appeared on his face in spite of himself. The forest was bound to be chaos on the day of.

As the sounds of civilization reached his ears, and the scent of roasting boar and tanning leather wafted about, he stopped.

Placing a clutch under each of his arms, he broke into his practiced limp, making sure to wince every few paces.

Hopefully Nasir could get the other villagers to set up traps and such later on. But for now, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Matters that involved a whole lot of munitions, and an old man that was much too excited for what was to come.