It was in forests like this that he had learned to hunt, to stalk. He took no pleasure in it, unlike some of the other young aristocrats he had known. But it was in such a forest, not that far away, that he had met his friend, the wolf. He wondered if he, too, was hunting tonight, not far away.

But there were darker things in the forest than wolves this night. His opponent was smart enough not to panic - he'd have to keep between him and the Fokker. He could range further if he had brought a rifle, but he had only a pistol.

He did not want to kill the other man. He never did, but the hungry skies left little opportunity to leave a man alive. But if he had to in order to survive, then he would do his duty. Without hesitation. But with just a little bit more remorse added to his burdened shoulders.

He moved silently, staying low so the rising moon would not present him in silhouette. And he stopped, every few paces, listening intently.

The hunt was on.