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singillatim2025-06-05 06:57 pm
ployboy) wrote in singillatim2025-06-05 06:57 pm
Entry tags:
it takes more than that to kill a bull moose (party log)
Who: Tim Drake, various others
What: A big game hunt; ambushing the moose when they're on the move
When: Last days of May (backdated!)
Where: Forests, Milton
Content Warnings: Animal death, animal injury, guns, hunting, peril, themes of survival, injury-- mind the individual threads!
[This is a party log! Reply to prompts with your character or make up your own scenario- anything goes tbqh. Feel free to reply to anyone else, get to plotting for the juicy stuff, try not to die!!]
The word spreads: a hunting party is organizing. The moose are dangerous and deceptively stealthy for their large lumbering size but some punk kid with binoculars and a death wish has found the pattern after living in the Territories for a year-- the moose migrate. And they're in the midst of it right now, in heavy numbers, in the forest between Milton and Lakeside. Fat, simple, single minded. The animals are marching forward in their trance that springs from instinct and nothing else. Tim has the trail mapped out and though some herds have already reached their destination in the faraway impossible terrain, there will be other herds. Other opportunities. But they've got to figure this out quick.
They need hunters. People experienced with hunting. Bullets are precious and can't go to waste. They need traps. Scary things to spook and control the beasts by their fear instead of relying on them to make decisions that will benefit the Interlopers. Traps, hidden things to lasso and snare and make hundreds of pounds of muscle stumble and fall for when the bullets do miss.
They need wolves. Smart wolves. The Moontouched. To herd and divide and conquer.
They need to remember where the traps are put.
They'll need to remember where the hunters are hidden. Where the hunters will be firing.
They'll need to remember that the snapping wolves will be on their side.
The night before, it's all about charting and ensuring everyone knows their place. They must be nothing less than a well-oiled machine if they want to survive.
Bulls weighing upwards of 1,000 lbs and standing over 6 ft at the shoulder. The cows, 5 ft and 800 lbs. They run up to 35 mph and aren't known for being friendly. The herds consist of a bull or two and their cows... and the odd, early newborns. But there's many herds, the groups moving more or less together as they search for their ancestral calving grounds. The mothers and soon-to-be mothers have their heads on a swivel: they would rather die than let their precious baby fall victim to the predators that will follow them and see them at their most vulnerable. The bulls are famously bad-tempered, and their territorial tendencies are amplified tenfold. Those antlers are nothing to scoff at. The hooves will kill you. Or make you wish you were dead.
When they stampede you better be out of reach of the thousands and thousands of pounds of angry muscle. In the first moments, if you strike quick, you might take down one of the calves while the adults are caught up in a fleeing blind panic.
Yes, the calves. This isn't Disney's Bambi.
Take too long, get caught stalking near the herd by one of those wild large brown eyes, and you had better pray for a miracle.
The dangers: the game. The wild wolves that have also had their eyes on these moose for the past weeks. Your fellow Interlopers-- what, you mean you trust all of these people when shit hits the fan? And make no mistake. Shit. will. hit the fan.
There's blood, and stink, and signs of violence all around the forest path from the upturned earth to the trees snapped like twigs. The short moments of the hunt weren't pretty. But nothing in nature dies with compassion, right? Certainly nothing dies with a morphine drip.
There will be time to tend to what broke in the Interlopers in the long walk back to Milton. And what did break? A long gun? A sense of honesty or honor? A rib, an arm? A heart, when the mother would keep bleating over the unmoving form of her calf, trampled and growing colder by the second? Hopefully nobody lost their head, their wits. Or their lives.
Well. There ya go. The moose are dead. Or dying, being dispatched, now that the talk has shifted to the subject of getting the goods back home.
Congratulations.
Now move these dead beasts the miles back into town.
The dangers: the wild wolves, they heard the excitement of the stampede and they smell the blood; they're howling, getting closer. The bears have a sharp sense of smell too, don't they? And there's a lot of blood and stink. It's slow going. The adrenaline will come down and then it'll be cold out. And you'll be exhausted and several miles from shelter with a target painted on your back. Do you even have bullets left to spare in case you are attacked?
Congratulations.
You're back in Milton. You have moose. You're bloodied (is it your blood-?) and bone tired. If not from the hunt, then from helping haul deadweight from the behemoths into the area surrounding the-- uh. slaughterhouse? is the slaughterhouse still standing?
It's been a long day.
Now get to work.
There's no time to waste. The meat will spoil and continue to bruise. There's hides to shave off and tan and fat to scrape and collect and antlers to saw and save and bones to craft or sharpen. Tender... veal. To consider for a meal today, maybe-- it would be a shame to turn such good young meat into jerky when the hunting party is starved. And in need of a pick-me-up.
It's been a long... day...
And there's so much work left to do. No man left behind, but what about the animals? Was everything brought in at once? Was the mess cleaned up, or will there be sentries posted along the trail to warn for the wildlife that's followed the scent of... death? Bet everyone has a wish for some strong ibuprofen; that's too bad.
The after: the smoking, the drying, the tanning, divvying up the goods... it's going to take a while. Once again: congratulations.
You're not dead yet.
What: A big game hunt; ambushing the moose when they're on the move
When: Last days of May (backdated!)
Where: Forests, Milton
Content Warnings: Animal death, animal injury, guns, hunting, peril, themes of survival, injury-- mind the individual threads!
The Before••• cw: discussion of big game hunting, themes of peril/survival, discussion of animal trapping, firearms
The word spreads: a hunting party is organizing. The moose are dangerous and deceptively stealthy for their large lumbering size but some punk kid with binoculars and a death wish has found the pattern after living in the Territories for a year-- the moose migrate. And they're in the midst of it right now, in heavy numbers, in the forest between Milton and Lakeside. Fat, simple, single minded. The animals are marching forward in their trance that springs from instinct and nothing else. Tim has the trail mapped out and though some herds have already reached their destination in the faraway impossible terrain, there will be other herds. Other opportunities. But they've got to figure this out quick.
They need hunters. People experienced with hunting. Bullets are precious and can't go to waste. They need traps. Scary things to spook and control the beasts by their fear instead of relying on them to make decisions that will benefit the Interlopers. Traps, hidden things to lasso and snare and make hundreds of pounds of muscle stumble and fall for when the bullets do miss.
They need wolves. Smart wolves. The Moontouched. To herd and divide and conquer.
They need to remember where the traps are put.
They'll need to remember where the hunters are hidden. Where the hunters will be firing.
They'll need to remember that the snapping wolves will be on their side.
The night before, it's all about charting and ensuring everyone knows their place. They must be nothing less than a well-oiled machine if they want to survive.
The Hunt••• cw: firearms, themes of survival, peril, hunting, trapping, animal injury and death, injury
Bulls weighing upwards of 1,000 lbs and standing over 6 ft at the shoulder. The cows, 5 ft and 800 lbs. They run up to 35 mph and aren't known for being friendly. The herds consist of a bull or two and their cows... and the odd, early newborns. But there's many herds, the groups moving more or less together as they search for their ancestral calving grounds. The mothers and soon-to-be mothers have their heads on a swivel: they would rather die than let their precious baby fall victim to the predators that will follow them and see them at their most vulnerable. The bulls are famously bad-tempered, and their territorial tendencies are amplified tenfold. Those antlers are nothing to scoff at. The hooves will kill you. Or make you wish you were dead.
When they stampede you better be out of reach of the thousands and thousands of pounds of angry muscle. In the first moments, if you strike quick, you might take down one of the calves while the adults are caught up in a fleeing blind panic.
Yes, the calves. This isn't Disney's Bambi.
Take too long, get caught stalking near the herd by one of those wild large brown eyes, and you had better pray for a miracle.
The dangers: the game. The wild wolves that have also had their eyes on these moose for the past weeks. Your fellow Interlopers-- what, you mean you trust all of these people when shit hits the fan? And make no mistake. Shit. will. hit the fan.
The Haul••• cw: dead animals, discussion of big game hunting, survival themes, butchering, injuries
There's blood, and stink, and signs of violence all around the forest path from the upturned earth to the trees snapped like twigs. The short moments of the hunt weren't pretty. But nothing in nature dies with compassion, right? Certainly nothing dies with a morphine drip.
There will be time to tend to what broke in the Interlopers in the long walk back to Milton. And what did break? A long gun? A sense of honesty or honor? A rib, an arm? A heart, when the mother would keep bleating over the unmoving form of her calf, trampled and growing colder by the second? Hopefully nobody lost their head, their wits. Or their lives.
Well. There ya go. The moose are dead. Or dying, being dispatched, now that the talk has shifted to the subject of getting the goods back home.
Congratulations.
Now move these dead beasts the miles back into town.
The dangers: the wild wolves, they heard the excitement of the stampede and they smell the blood; they're howling, getting closer. The bears have a sharp sense of smell too, don't they? And there's a lot of blood and stink. It's slow going. The adrenaline will come down and then it'll be cold out. And you'll be exhausted and several miles from shelter with a target painted on your back. Do you even have bullets left to spare in case you are attacked?
The After••• cw: dead animals, butchering, injuries
Congratulations.
You're back in Milton. You have moose. You're bloodied (is it your blood-?) and bone tired. If not from the hunt, then from helping haul deadweight from the behemoths into the area surrounding the-- uh. slaughterhouse? is the slaughterhouse still standing?
It's been a long day.
Now get to work.
There's no time to waste. The meat will spoil and continue to bruise. There's hides to shave off and tan and fat to scrape and collect and antlers to saw and save and bones to craft or sharpen. Tender... veal. To consider for a meal today, maybe-- it would be a shame to turn such good young meat into jerky when the hunting party is starved. And in need of a pick-me-up.
It's been a long... day...
And there's so much work left to do. No man left behind, but what about the animals? Was everything brought in at once? Was the mess cleaned up, or will there be sentries posted along the trail to warn for the wildlife that's followed the scent of... death? Bet everyone has a wish for some strong ibuprofen; that's too bad.
The after: the smoking, the drying, the tanning, divvying up the goods... it's going to take a while. Once again: congratulations.
You're not dead yet.