"How many do we need?" Rowan tightened his grip on the wooden spear in his hand, feeling the roughness of the bark that hadn't been polished thoroughly rubbing against a palm accustomed to the cold metal of weapons. The gaze of a hunter appeared, sharp and calculating, just as when he was analyzing a tactical sandbox.
Owen threw the sheep on his shoulder to the ground and casually reported a number: "Not many, more than ten should be enough to make gear and eat gradually. Try to keep the skins intact; don't stab them up too badly."
"Let's split up. After hunting, look for more wild fruits nearby; it might take some time." Rowan said, then immediately dashed off, his body moving with the decisiveness and efficiency of a well-trained soldier, every step calculated to approach the target in the fastest way possible.
