A Boar Hunt
A bristle of rifles and spears marched through the rough-hewn woods. It was not a war party, despite the heavy arms they carried on their person, and the men moved with purpose. This was a boar-hunt, a tradition in the Far Firm, a show of force and victory over nature.

King Aelfric's spear was held upright as he guided his courser along the trodden pathway, the banner upon it hanging languidly along the shaft. He was a stern-looking man, somewhat thin and wiry, but muscled all the same. Medium brown hair was tucked under a silver circlet, the crown of his minor office: there were many kings in the Far Firm. He wore a woolen coat, essential in these cold climates, over a tunic of synthetic cloth. Behind his horse was his procession: twenty-six men all told. Twenty laborers of various kinds, to move and process the corpse of the Great Boar; two Gunmen, with their signature battle rifles of sleek, blackened metal, there to act as protector and bodyguard of the king. Two Marksmen with anti-armor rifles: one to pierce the Great Boar's bony armor, and the other if that failed; and of course, three Spearmen, trained in Breath, to puncture and distract it if all else failed.

One of the marksmen stopped in his tracks. The king and the others followed suit; he braced himself, armored torso flat against the ground. The other marksman readied himself, looking for the beast that was spotted. With a loud pop, 13mm of brass flew through the air, aimed to kill the boar. Only the marksman sees his shot bounce off of the hide, leaving a streak of red in the Great Boar's flesh. He swore.

The other marksman dropped, looking for the beast beyond the tree-trunks. He fired a second shot, this one embedding itself above the beast's leg. Through the trees it rumbled and whinnied, seemingly undaunted. From this distance, it was easy to see the *scale* of the beast: 6 feet from hoof to shoulder, and easily twice that in length, as much an armored vehicle as a beast. The eyes were mad, aggressive, tusks poised to pierce the things that had so disturbed it. Aelfric's horse panicked. It was a well-trained charger, but it could not control itself: the stallion bucked, sending Aelfric to the ground, the spear that was meant to pierce the boar finding flesh in the King's inner thigh.

The spearmen moved into position; as masters of breath they did not fear. The leader drew in the cool forest air. His eyes were closed, his spear poised, and his heart centered: this would be his only chance to stave off disaster. With a whip of air, the spear thrust forward. Bullet-deflecting bone shattered impossibly under behind the master's weapon. Even with a spear lodged in its skull, the beast still thrashed; and its tusks found a laborer's chest. This was the boar's final act, and it crumpled next to Aelfric.