09-17-2016, 05:02 AM
Symbolism.
It has existed ever since the ancient times, developed and guided by the different religions and beliefs across the passage of time. Myths and legends have claimed beings and objects alike as their own. And often in the centre of it all, were animals. The symbolism of animals reaches across the void of time, holding within its grasp tales of feline, canine and vulpine alike.
Foxes were believed to be creatures of cunning, of magical prowess and trickery. Even then, they were seldom kept evil. Outfoxing the slow, but monstrously strong bear as well as the evil and voracious bear. The vulpine kin symbolises the victory of the intelligent over the strong and malicious..
And this, this is a tale of one such fox.
A full moon cast its pale hue upon the deep green needles of the spruce trees. If one was familiar with forests or perhaps had some sense for the supernatural, they could likely feel the shivers running down their spine. It was almost as if there was something, someone, watching them from somewhere deep within the woods. A pair of eyes, only for them to disappear. Had they even been there in the first place? It didn’t help that the spruces seemed to have taken a liking to each other, grown inseparably close to one another, weaving a dense, difficult to traverse forest, where one had to press forth with force to advance, at times.
It was in such a forest where the vulpines lived, where the moon grinned down upon them with a wide, predatory expression, giggling at times. A forest where the owls howled and the wolves meowed. It was a strange place, indeed.
Legends said, that the forest was full of such creatures of wonder, if you asked a villager, seeing one meant ten years of good luck. If you however, opted to ask their neighbour, they claimed they were harbingers of bad news.
But of course, a hunter cared not for such superstition. They had mouths to feed, families to look after. They cared not about what magical prowess a beast had, if their furs were warm and meat edible. His boots treaded into the ground with an expertise that only years of training could achieve, each movement calculated and silent. There would be no sound, no scent in the wind to warn his prey.
An owl howled in the night a cacophony of many as its kinship joined. The hunter sat in wait, arrow resting upon the string of his bow. His instincts told him, that tonight would be just like every other; his prey would be here. It had been so for each and every night for days now.
Of course, one could ask why, if he had stalked for days in the same spot, had he not gone for the kill already? Was he simply an incompetent fool? A sentimental creature of his own habits? Perhaps it was the desire to savor the kill, to pay forward his respect to the majestic creatures of this forest. He may not have cared for their powers or their tales, but respected them as prey.
Raising his gaze, the hunter raised his bow, pulling the string taut as he aimed. The prey had arrived, and this game was over. An arrow was let loose, howling as it soared across the air toward the flesh it was destined to dig into. Or… It would have. If the target would’ve been there. As the arrow clinked into a rock, the hunter’s expression displayed nothing but confusion, as he slowly crept forth from his hideout and toward the arrow. There were clearly tracks in the ground.
If only he hadn’t been so within his own bafflement that he would’ve noticed the creature behind him. It was only when a cheery giggle reached his ears that he scrambled around, practically panicking as he as he found himself sitting flat on his ass.
“Silly thing, did you think I’d be shot that easily~?” the fox inquired with a teasy, feminine tone in its voice.
Insanity. This was insanity. The fo- He didn’t stop to finish the trail of thoughts before he was already scrambling at full speed through the forest.. He’d never come back, no. He’d become a blacksmith, he’d become a baker. He’d become something, anything else.
It was an old folktale told by the village’s folktale, as told to him by his father and before that, his father. How true could it be?
It has existed ever since the ancient times, developed and guided by the different religions and beliefs across the passage of time. Myths and legends have claimed beings and objects alike as their own. And often in the centre of it all, were animals. The symbolism of animals reaches across the void of time, holding within its grasp tales of feline, canine and vulpine alike.
Foxes were believed to be creatures of cunning, of magical prowess and trickery. Even then, they were seldom kept evil. Outfoxing the slow, but monstrously strong bear as well as the evil and voracious bear. The vulpine kin symbolises the victory of the intelligent over the strong and malicious..
And this, this is a tale of one such fox.
A full moon cast its pale hue upon the deep green needles of the spruce trees. If one was familiar with forests or perhaps had some sense for the supernatural, they could likely feel the shivers running down their spine. It was almost as if there was something, someone, watching them from somewhere deep within the woods. A pair of eyes, only for them to disappear. Had they even been there in the first place? It didn’t help that the spruces seemed to have taken a liking to each other, grown inseparably close to one another, weaving a dense, difficult to traverse forest, where one had to press forth with force to advance, at times.
It was in such a forest where the vulpines lived, where the moon grinned down upon them with a wide, predatory expression, giggling at times. A forest where the owls howled and the wolves meowed. It was a strange place, indeed.
Legends said, that the forest was full of such creatures of wonder, if you asked a villager, seeing one meant ten years of good luck. If you however, opted to ask their neighbour, they claimed they were harbingers of bad news.
But of course, a hunter cared not for such superstition. They had mouths to feed, families to look after. They cared not about what magical prowess a beast had, if their furs were warm and meat edible. His boots treaded into the ground with an expertise that only years of training could achieve, each movement calculated and silent. There would be no sound, no scent in the wind to warn his prey.
An owl howled in the night a cacophony of many as its kinship joined. The hunter sat in wait, arrow resting upon the string of his bow. His instincts told him, that tonight would be just like every other; his prey would be here. It had been so for each and every night for days now.
Of course, one could ask why, if he had stalked for days in the same spot, had he not gone for the kill already? Was he simply an incompetent fool? A sentimental creature of his own habits? Perhaps it was the desire to savor the kill, to pay forward his respect to the majestic creatures of this forest. He may not have cared for their powers or their tales, but respected them as prey.
Raising his gaze, the hunter raised his bow, pulling the string taut as he aimed. The prey had arrived, and this game was over. An arrow was let loose, howling as it soared across the air toward the flesh it was destined to dig into. Or… It would have. If the target would’ve been there. As the arrow clinked into a rock, the hunter’s expression displayed nothing but confusion, as he slowly crept forth from his hideout and toward the arrow. There were clearly tracks in the ground.
If only he hadn’t been so within his own bafflement that he would’ve noticed the creature behind him. It was only when a cheery giggle reached his ears that he scrambled around, practically panicking as he as he found himself sitting flat on his ass.
“Silly thing, did you think I’d be shot that easily~?” the fox inquired with a teasy, feminine tone in its voice.
Insanity. This was insanity. The fo- He didn’t stop to finish the trail of thoughts before he was already scrambling at full speed through the forest.. He’d never come back, no. He’d become a blacksmith, he’d become a baker. He’d become something, anything else.
It was an old folktale told by the village’s folktale, as told to him by his father and before that, his father. How true could it be?
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