deer hunter, how i became a skinwalker in a world of animal people.

( not canon ) man made vultures

The house was silent except for the sound of his own breath, ragged and uneven, echoing in the emptiness. He stepped through the doorway, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. The door creaked a little, the sound like a whisper in the stillness. Outside, the world was shrouded in darkness, but inside, the dim light of a single, dusty bulb flickered in the entryway. He had killed her not ten minutes ago; the deer girl's body lay sprawled out on the front porch, blood seeping into the weathered wooden boards. He tried not to think about her, about the look of shock and fear frozen on her face. He had to keep moving.

The human glanced around, taking in the old-fashioned décor. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper and floral patterns that looked like they belonged in a different era. Family photos hung crookedly in mismatched frames. He avoided looking at them for now. The place felt frozen in time, like a museum of someone else's life, someone else's memories. It was disconcerting, but he had no time for sentiment. He had to focus on the essentials—he had to survive.

He tightened his grip on the hatchet in his hand, feeling the cool weight of the metal. He'd grabbed it from a rack near the door, its edge still sharp enough to do some damage. He wasn't used to using melee weapons, but he couldn't rely on the rifle slung over his shoulder. It had only a few bullets left, and there was no telling when—or if—he'd find more.

He moved deeper into the house, each step careful and measured. His boots thudded softly on the floorboards, the sound amplified by the quiet. He felt his nerves prickling, every sense on high alert. He was in enemy territory, unfamiliar and unforgiving. He had to find supplies—food, water, anything that could help him survive this strange world. His stomach growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he'd eaten. He couldn't afford to be picky.

moves to living room

The living room was the first stop. It was a cluttered space, with old furniture covered in thick fabric. A floral-print couch sat beneath a large bay window, its cushions faded and worn. A low coffee table was strewn with magazines, books, and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. The air smelled faintly of smoke and something sweeter, like cinnamon. He scanned the room, looking for anything useful. There was a glass cabinet against the far wall, filled with small ceramic figurines and knick-knacks. He moved closer, prying the door open with the hatchet. Inside, he found little of value—just dust-covered trinkets. He rifled through them anyway, pushing aside old photos and porcelain animals, until he spotted a small, silver candlestick at the back. It was tarnished but solid. He grabbed it, slipping it into his pack. Silver might be valuable.

His eyes fell on a stack of DVDs and music discs on a shelf. He paused, considering. Maybe they could be used for barter—who knew what might be valuable here? He grabbed a handful and stuffed them into his bag. Next to them, he found an old-fashioned cigarette case with a few bent, dried-out cigarettes inside. He pocketed those too. Nicotine would help keep him awake and keep his mind sharp.

moves to kitchen

He moved to the kitchen next, feeling a little more at ease. This room was brighter; a single window let in a sliver of moonlight, casting eerie shadows across the floor. He could see the outlines of pots and pans hanging above the stove, a wooden rack filled with knives, their blades dull with age. He ignored them; his hatchet was more reliable. He went straight for the fridge, pulling it open with a grunt. The light flickered to life, revealing shelves lined with milk, cheese, and some wilting vegetables. Useless. He dug deeper, pushing aside containers and cartons, until he found what he was looking for—bottles of water. He grabbed three, twisting the caps open to check. They seemed clean enough. He shoved them into his bag, then turned his attention to the pantry.

The pantry door was locked. He felt a surge of frustration and anger. He could have sworn there was no time for locks in a place like this. He tried the handle again, but it was jammed tight. He took a step back and swung the hatchet hard against the wood, splintering it with a single blow. Two more swings, and the door burst open. Inside, he found shelves lined with canned goods—soup, beans, fruit, everything he could have hoped for. He grabbed as much as he could carry, cramming the cans into his bag until it felt heavy on his shoulder.