 Crafting Motif 129: Hircine Bloodhunter Style |
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| ID | 8029 | ||
| See Also | Lore version | ||
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| Collection | Hircine Bloodhunter Style | ||
| Crafting Style | Hircine Bloodhunter Style | ||
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Found in the following locations:
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By Fenrik Wild-Heart, Huntsmen of the Old Ways
Little wolf, it's time. The Master of Beasts calls for me to join him in his hunting grounds, but don't be afraid. I leave with you a few final lessons. After all, a hunter is only as good as the gear on their back and the weapon in their hands. Every day will be a fight for survival, yes. But you're ready. Find my voice in the reeds, my breath in the campfire's warmth, my wisdom in these pages.
Hunt well. Hunt swiftly. My little wolf.
AXES
Remember the night of your hunt rite. How you were thrown from the warmth of the camp's fire and made to face incisors that gleamed in the moon's light. Was it a wolf you first faced? A bear? The bite of this axe should feel familiar.
BELTS
Whittle his visage from bone or wood; or carve his horns into leather or metal plate. Our Prince isn't picky. He wishes only to observe. To see the hunt through your eyes. To know you honor the old ways and stalk the woods like his people in the time before the mer.
BOOTS
Reinforced hide pulled tight. Chitinous plates held firm. Step with caution through the underbrush. Vary your steps so that you blend with your surroundings. A falling leaf, a scurrying mouse, an unsheathed blade.
BOWS
Hollowed bone and strips of rawhide pulled taught. Steady your breath and listen to the wind as it passes through the willows and birch. An arrow released should be no more discernable than a single leaf on a swaying branch.
CHESTS
In birth, cubs search for their mother's heart; that familiar, comforting beat. This is where we carry our Prince. He is the warmth that preserves us through the winter, and the drum that gives rhythm to our strikes. Listen, now. The hunt calls for you.
DAGGERS
The runts are given woodcarving knives before their third winter. Then they are asked to carve the beast they see hidden in the smoke of the hearth. A simple task to build patience and skill with a short blade. But be warned, a hunter should never leave their tent without a dagger, because one day that soot-hidden beast will find you.
GLOVES
Tip your fingers with sharpened teeth or claws. Leave signs of your presence carved in the bark of trees. Tear through leather as easily as a blade through flesh. Fight until the very end and make them regret ever getting in arm's reach.
HELMETS
Remember the moths that gathered by the campfire. Their wings covered in mimicked eyes. Little lies always watching. There's power in a gaze, so keep yours hidden. Only reveal it when the time is right. When you know you've already won. When your prey can look in your eyes and know it's over, the trap is sprung, and all that's left is that long, dark sleep.
LEG GREAVES
Fur lining and oiled leather. The tree that weathers the storm. Armor plates and woven belts. The stone that splits the river. Face the wilds head on and our Prince will never leave your side.
MACES
Remember when lightning struck the old oak by the lake. How the timber shattered and moaned as it burned from within. Strike true with this mace, with its head made of tightly wound roots and gnarled claws, and you'll hear bones crack and prey bellow.
SHIELDS
Carved from solid oak and adorned with a prized kill. It may seem strange, wielding such a cumbersome shield, but its true value comes with the fading light of day. When shadows stretch and our eyes play tricks. Stay low, and let your prey see first these hungry mandibles, a merciful distraction from your hidden blade.
SHOULDERS
Our Prince did not give us all claws or horns to sharpen, but therein lies his promised challenge. Hunt, hunt, little wolf. Bite with sharpened dagger or loosed arrow. Every successful hunt is a weapon in your holster. Armor on your back. No, we were not all given claws or horns, but our prey has many to spare.
STAVES
Wade into the river and feel the waters flow around you. Let your arms pass through the reeds and cattails. You are the stave, and the river and wind are the magicka you shape. Direct the flow and turn brook into storm.
SWORDS
Remember how we watched the falcons dive into the long grass. How they carried mice and rabbits into the sky. Little rodents granted a gift in their final moments. A view of the world reserved for their betters. This is the gift you bring with every strike of your sharpened blade. End their lonely, insignificant march with swiftness.