You'd think two roasted moon‑hares and a decent night's sleep would erase the last scraps of city‑kid squishiness. I certainly marched out of camp like a discount Conan: spear over one shoulder, notebook under the other, head buzzing with ambitious plans for deluxe snares and maybe a spit‑roast big enough to star in its own legend.
The forest, naturally, decided to humble me.
Late afternoon light dappled the understory in coins of gold and teal—the dual‑sun special. I was busy selecting straight saplings for trap frames when the ground shuddered under a guttural snort. A bramble thicket about ten metres to my left convulsed, showering leaves.
Out burst a boar so massive it deserved its own postal code. Three hundred pounds of muscle wrapped in mud‑matted hide and studded—no, armoured—with thorny vines embedded like living barbed wire. Crimson eyes locked on me. My brain offered a single helpful thought: That's a walking meat tenderiser.
I dropped the wood bundle and planted my spear butt in the loam. "Easy, big girl," I said, voice wobbling. She disagreed. With a squeal that rattled my fillings, she charged.
Time folded into a tunnel of sound: hooves drumming, thorns clacking, my pulse thundering counterpoint. I sidestepped at the last second, angling the spear toward her flank. The point struck—but instead of sinking deep, it skittered along a plate of scar tissue and snapped like cheap chopsticks. Momentum spun me; I tasted dirt.
"Note to self," I coughed, scrambling behind a boulder, "upgrade to titanium."
Second pass came quicker than a Perth bus delay. I pivoted again, but her tusk grazed my thigh, tearing linen and pride. Hot pain bloomed. No time to nurse it. Knife out, quartz edge gleaming.
She wheeled, brambles rattling like a junkyard tambourine. I faked a stumble, exposing my right side. She lunged. At the last heartbeat I ducked and plunged the flint blade into the soft crease behind her left eye.
Impact jarred my shoulder; the knife hilt rammed my palm. The boar screamed, skidded—then her bulk toppled with a ground‑shaking thud. Victory lasted exactly one breath before a lattice of thorns on her back scraped across my arm and shoulder, shredding skin and peppering me with barbed splinters.
Pain flared white. I dropped to my knees, vision tunnelling, heartbeat hammering double‑time. Warmth—not just heat from exertion but a weird, pulsing glow—spread from each thorn puncture. My fingertips tingled the way they had when sparks jumped wide during fire‑making. Great. Mystery mana meets deep tissue.
I tore a moon‑hare pelt into strips and wrapped the worst gash, then gingerly used a glowing ember from my bark tube to cauterise a shallow slice on my forearm. The smell of singed skin and pork fat mingled—disgusting, yet perversely reassuring. I was hurt, but I was alive.
With shakier hands than I'd admit, I set about field dressing the boar. The hide came off reluctantly, barbs snapping and nicking me anew. Two curved tusks—each the length of my forearm—were sawed free and laid aside for future intimidation value. Thick slabs of meat followed, stacked on broad leaves.
Dusk settled, bringing the cicada‑choir and a lavender haze. I lugged the haul back to camp, every step a drumbeat of pain and pride. At the fire, fat hissed over flames, releasing an aroma so rich it eclipsed the ache. I logged the encounter in charcoal: sketch of a barbed hide, notes on charge speed, spear failure, and a bold heading—"Megafauna ≠ Overconfidence."
Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, throbbing in time with that strange inner warmth. I added another line: "Find antiseptic plants tomorrow—or grow an extra shoulder."
When the first slice of boar meat was done, I savoured it slowly, letting the grease coat my tongue and the day's terror ease into weary gratification. Fire popped, sending sparks skyward like reverse shooting stars. Somewhere in the distance a jackal howled, but tonight I had six feet of thorn‑covered proof that I wasn't easy prey.
Exhaustion finally pinned me. Inside the oak hollow I propped the hide—thorns out—across the entrance, a natural barbed door. The pelt smelled of iron and moss; the fire's glow painted shifting constellations across the ceiling.
I wrote three last bullet points:
Forge tougher spear.
Boar hide = potential armour/roof.
Herbs ASAP—wounds warm, not good.
My handwriting wavered off the bark as eyelids drooped. Survival was no longer theoretical. The forest had teeth—and now so did I.