Aramaspa

She heard the movement before she saw it. Her ears flicked upwards as the sound of footfalls on mud echoed through the trees, and she crouched low in her blind.

The arrow was already nocked. Her new bow was stiffer, stronger, and as she pulled the string taut it fought her efforts to make it bend. She forced it to anyway and held her breath, her attention fixed on the point she knew her quarry would come from - it was following the path, just as planned. An easy kill.

The griffon came into view, tromping through the puddles left by the summer rains with a spear held close to its chest. Heading towards the rising sun, it had to keep its head low and squint to see the trail of hoofprints before it. There was still some down in its feathers, still some awkwardness in its gait, but not much. A late bloomer, she reckoned.

All the same, it had left the nest like its brethren. It had lived until now by stalking hare and pheasant, and now wandered further afield in search of larger prey.

She would make sure it never found any.

She’d arrived there before dawn, smeared mud on her coat, and dug herself in between two roots to wait. The trail she’d left was obvious, the hoofprints broad and deep and laid with a slight limp to entice a pursuit, the culmination of many moons' practice. A few phases ago she would have prayed as she worked, but now her preparations were made in silence: of all the ponies who needed the Gods' favor, she was no longer one of them.

Strange, then, that as her target approached a small prayer for protection left her lips.

She drew the bow a little further, lined up her aim, and paused. The griffon was still a good distance out, far enough that it wouldn’t be able to spot her and far enough that she wasn’t confident in her ability to hit it. Even having prepared, she couldn’t afford to be sloppy: she had to be sure her shot found its mark, had to be sure it would die quickly, and so she decided to wait.

There was a small puddle further along the path, close enough to the blind that she wouldn’t miss. She resolved that when it reached that puddle, she would shoot it.

The griffon drew nearer, stopping every now and then to sniff the air and look around. It was downwind of her and had to know she was here somewhere, but by the time it found her it would be too late. For a moment she almost might have pitied it, but there wasn’t much room for that. Not as it drew close enough for her to see the twitching of its wings, the claw marks on its spear. Now was the time for purpose, for strength.

She pulled the bowstring back until the arrowhead struck the limb and held it there. She watched the griffon get closer, watched it step over the puddle and keep going. It didn't suspect a thing.

Tarkā exhaled, took aim at its throat, and loosed.