The stagnant breeze, quite possibly fatal to anyone not used to the bleak, desolate, mutated lands of Teinar, barely touches the phantasmagoric fauna, much less the hair of the Hunter. Crouched low to the dead ground, close enough to hear the harsh, weak cries of the mother Earth herself, Kharne studied the footprints. Three talons in front, one to either side, and one on the back. The ones closest to the inside were larger than those pointing out. And judging from the size, this creature was at least ten feet tall. Good thought Kharne. A big one meant meat, and meat meant fewer hungry nights, alone in the wastelands.
His gear, unused since it was issued to him, was in his pack, which was on his back. The translator, communicator, and GPS unit were all intact, but idle. No one back at Command would be saddened to hear of Kharne's demise... perhaps the only reason he was still alive. To spite. To hate. To hurt. To rage. His reptilian eyes narrowed at the prospect of a hunt, and he rose from his crouch. He examined his spear... and grinned a dangerous grin. The dim light glinted off of his jagged fangs, and he leaned into the breeze, hunting his prey.
