Calf turned towards the voice in a slow manner, too tired to start at the unknown man's sudden appearance. He inspected the beast of a man towering over him. The man occupied a nigh flawless ebony work of art whose perfection was only marred by three arrow scars around a deep and jagged scar on the lower part of the left breast. Instead of humanizing him the scars, especially the one which told tale of an almost deific tenacity to survive; added to the menace and prowess his seasoned muscles and spear hinted at. He wore somewhat familiar markings in white paint on his face and the only other adornment on him was the thick halfmoon necklace around his neck. The man took unhurried and silent steps towards him, and Calf couldn't help but take a step back at the predatory menace the man exuded. He stopped himself in the middle of the backpaddle, bringing his chin up in defiance and hardening his jaw before raising his line of sight to meet with the man's eyes.

"Well met," the man said with a wide toothy grin that tickled a feeling of familiarity he couldn't place. The grin had a calming effect to it that resulted in Calf relaxing and ceasing his posturing, lowering a stabbing spear he hadn't noticed lifting. He was relieved the man meant no harm as instincts told him he wouldn't have been much of a challenge as prey were the man out to get him.

"May I?" asked the man as he gestured to the harvest site. Calf nodded and contemplated all the possible outcomes he could think of while the man inspected his work. Though the harvested carcass was his kill, he couldn't even know if the range harbored other inhabitants whom he'd have to pay tribute to. Tribute would be tolerable but if the overlarge rooster was some kind of sacred animal in the man's customs, a blood price might be in order. The last thought was highly unlikely though, seeing as there were no doubts as to who'd killed it and the man was yet to apprehend him.

"The hunted prevailed, well done," the man said to Calf after inspecting the kill. This brought Calf back from his contemplation and he faced the crouching man again, their eyes now at a level. The man got up and regarded Calf for a few seconds as if waiting for something he expected forthcoming. Failing to get what he'd expected in the wait he followed up the brief silence with a simple request, "Name yourself".

The request had been more of an ask than a command, and the man waited patiently for Calf to respond. Calf gave little thought to the question and made to answer but suddenly found himself braced at a crouch and struggling to get up. He'd twitched a lip in preparation of responding when a sudden weight settled over him. His mind lost the next syllable he'd wished to utter as his head vibrated on the inside and his joints grew heavier. He buckled to their pull and landed on his elbows and knees gasping for breaths he hadn't noticed he'd stop taking. His breathing calmed after some time and he got up gingerly, taking a few seconds to shake off the lingering weakness.

"Your story has barely begun, and you have yet to earn the name you're trying to claim," the man told Calf.

What? Calf thought, trying to claim?! I have borne this name from the day I joined the Taurs! I need not earn what was given freely by my father! he railed on the inside. Though the words had rubbed him the wrong way, he wouldn't be foolish enough to challenge the man head-on. He schooled his expression and posture to mimic calm contemplation before making a second attempt. He brought his oldest name into focus, playing with the nostalgic sound in his head before speaking it and just like the first time, his body was arrested the moment he tasted the first syllable on his tongue.

"And that is the weight of a name, 'Asina'! You shall bear that as your own instead, fated to answer to it until the day you return with one of your choosing, one you deserve," the man said with a hint of finality. He pointed towards Calf's right shoulder and a sequence of characters appeared there. 'A-SI-NA', they read, interpreted as 'The one without-' in the older language. He brought a tentative finger to them and noted their coarse texturing. Though they appeared as if branded onto him, the process had been painless, and nigh noticeable had it not been for the man's jutting finger that had brought Calf's attention to the shoulder. Calf looked a question to the man and the man responded with a verbal question of his own.

"How many legends can you remember by their birth name?" he asked, pausing to let Calf mull over that for a bit before continuing, "What name one gets is a matter of motive and perspective but whether they deserve it is a different matter altogether. To guardians, names are canvases for current challenges or wishes for the future; To friend and foe alike, names are paintings of character, what one's ally is like or what one wishes their enemy to be like. Those are just shallow considerations on three perspectives but whatever perspectives you find yourself holding remember this, 'Names universally connect bodies and faces to deeds'."

Calf digested those words of wisdom, going over every word that was said lest he miss anything. What the man had said made sense though he was still a bit displeased about being told to earn what had been freely given. Ignoring that point of contention, he considered the brand on his shoulder and wanted to know its implications to others, but first, he'd see to the man's identity. Since he was adamant about names, Calf was hoping the man would freely offer his own if asked in turn. From that, he might be able to piece out the man’s agenda from his identity, and maybe clue on how to approach his questions.

"Where are my manners, may I know who I address?" he asked politely.

"I am The First of Hunters," the man responded.

That wasn't much to go off of but the 'First' part gave him pause. Is he implying first as in the best or…!? Calf thought.

The only other first's he'd known were either overconfident fools at campfires, nationally acclaimed treasures or simply words on pages and pages of suspiciously consistent accounts. The man's physique would suggest he would undoubtedly qualify as a treasure more than a charlatan, but the last consideration would just be too outlandish. The First were considered gods, which he'd up until now taken to be a metaphor for peerless beings in their crafts and domains. He'd found nothing about them in the scrolls and his only pieces of reference were word-of-mouth and the poetic pieces detailing their prowess. Though he'd heard a few stories alleging some of the actions dating to their juvenile years, actual names linking to their lineage were never mentioned. It had been quite the surprise to him when he'd found none daring to name any of The First, even for theatrical purposes. It seemed an unspoken rule to never name them, and surprisingly, everyone followed it, including the poets who in any other topic weren't wont to let the truth get in the way of a good story. Awed at the possibility of this being one of them, he couldn't resist the urge to push for confirmation.

"The First of legend, unnamed in all accounts?" he asked with a hint of fake skepticism in his voice. He'd meant it as a mask for his enthusiasm, but it seemed the Hunter saw right through this facade. He smiled at the weak attempt before responding, "Unnamed? Is a title not a name then?" the man asked in a playful tone. Though he hadn't given an outright yes, the lack of a denial gave him hope. The Hunter continued, "Stories outlive a bearer and the names that stick to them are all that stand as testament to the actions of their life. If stories live long enough to become legends, then naturally they grow to forget what was initially given, mostly retaining that which was earned at the highest cost."

The response read like a lecture, but he'd understood the point the man was trying to convey. Even in the most 'accurate' accountings he'd read, bias was unavoidable and the contrasts in how victories and defeats were documented displayed this the most. Historians of any nation had the tendency of demonizing the enemy that their masses were unified against; thus, many accountings would highlight the dishonorable methods of the other whilst touting the honor and prowess of their own nation's warriors, be it truth or far from it. This is what he'd understood by motive and perspective.

He'd had the privilege of reading from some of the restricted texts and he knew to take all accountings with a grain of salt, and an extra helping of fact-checking. He considered scrolls from different ages of Taur past and noted that throughout documented history, details of the same events seemed to dwindle with every subsequent telling. This compression would occur till only the most notable parts of any sequence condensed into a name or a title that people would use freely to anchor any retelling. In the event that a being or a collection of them would go on to replicate their success with equally or more notable events in the future, these would also be condensed to either add to or replace the preexisting labels.

In rare cases, a gifted individuals would be born, collecting accolades here and there with each more impressive than the last. Few of the gifted would qualify as legends, a subset of them lucky enough to have the events of their life immortalized in cycles. The best of the cycled were dubbed demigods, gifted to an extent they could claim deific prowess, yet even above them another tier existed, reserved for The First. Cycles were slightly open to interpretation but Tales of The First were immutable, attempts of bending them inviting great retribution.

The man cleared his throat as Calf resolved to ask for more details. The Hunter scratched his bald and shiny head before pointing to a thick chunk of breast meat and grinning towards Calf. Calf laughed at the nostalgic gesture still wet in his recent memories before nodding to the man, who speared the chunk and directed the tip to the mouth of his pouch. The pouch's mouth opened to accommodate the spear-point's load before hungrily clamping onto the shaft. The weird pouch peeked Calf's interests momentarily, but he shook his head to dispel the growing curiosity, turning back to the man's identity instead.

"'Food for thought', literally," the Hunter said with a booming chuckle. Calf also smiled at this and deciding to take a gamble, asked to be excused for a second before rushing to the burnt trees. He selected a few passable branches to cut down and ran back to the harvest site with them in a small bundle. As he attempted to get a fire going, the Hunter gestured for him to let him instead. The Hunter swung his spear to within inches of the burnt wood and most of the wood immediately splintered into blocks and kindling. He brought the spear-point's tip to one of the branches that were still intact, rolling it back and forth between his fingers to evoke a flame. The wood caught and with another swing of the spear the flame was fanned into a blaze.

Once the flames died down and a nice bed of red coals was left, he swung his spear towards the chunk Calf had set beside the fire, segmenting it into manageable cubes. He gestured to the rooster's unprocessed portion and Calf nodded his approval. With Calf's leave, he removed the drums and set them aside before removing the meat from the upper thigh. He moved to the back and stripped the meat and skin before removing most of its neck bones. He stripped one of the drums and drove it into the ground on one side of the fire before impaling the meat cubes along the giant rooster's ribs. He aligned his spear along the bony spine, lifting the meat-clad spikes over the fire and setting the structure down by the neck bones over the drum bone's crook. Finally, he sunk both thigh bones into the ground to complete the three-legged suspended spit before sitting cross-legged to watch the grill. It would be quite the feast, and Calf hoped it would be just as informing, having bet everything on the conversations to be had during the dining.