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

(not canon) first hunt

The fire in Stacy's small cabin burned low, casting flickering shadows across the rustic interior. She sat near the window, her delicate white antlers brushing against the curtains as she leaned forward, staring into the dark forest. The silence of the night felt heavier than usual, oppressive even, and her amber eyes scanned the tree line for movement. Something wasn't right.

The woods were usually alive with nocturnal sounds: the rustling of leaves, the chirping of crickets, the occasional distant call of an owl. But tonight, everything was still. Stacy's heart felt uneasy, as though it had picked up on something her other senses couldn't detect.

Her blonde hair fell loosely around her shoulders as she sat back, trying to shake the tension from her body. "You're being silly," she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire. She had grown up in these woods, knew them like the back of her hand. They had always been a source of comfort, not fear.

But then came the noise.

A soft crunch echoed through the night, faint but distinct. Stacy's ears twitched, her body tensing as she turned toward the sound. It came again—closer this time. It wasn't the light, erratic steps of a small animal; it was heavier, deliberate. Her breath caught in her throat.

For a moment, she debated locking the door and stoking the fire until morning. But curiosity—or foolishness—pushed her to her feet. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she moved to the door, her hooves clicking softly against the wooden floor. Her hand trembled as she touched the latch.

She pulled the door open.

The cold night air rushed in, sharp and biting. The clearing outside her home was bathed in pale moonlight, the shadows of the trees stretching long and dark. She stepped onto the porch, her hooves crunching against the frost-covered planks.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice steady despite the unease coiling in her chest.

No response.

She took a cautious step forward, scanning the tree line. Then she saw it—a figure emerging from the shadows.

It was tall, thin, and angular, its form wrapped in dark, tattered clothing. A crude mask covered its face, stitched together in jagged lines, the empty eyeholes glowing faintly in the moonlight. In its hands, it held a long, antique pistol—a flintlock muzzleloader.

Stacy froze, her breath catching as fear rooted her in place.

The hunter stared at her from behind the mask, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His mind raced as he took her in. The creature standing before him was uncanny, unnatural. Her form was too human, her expressions disturbingly familiar. But she wasn't human. She couldn't be.

His stomach churned as his eyes traced her antlers, her soft fur, the delicate features of her face. It was wrong. All of it. She was an animal pretending to be something she wasn't, and the sight filled him with revulsion.

He hadn't wanted to come here, not really. The invitation to the "Innawoods Challenge" had seemed like a harmless joke—a larping event for his online forum where participants donned their best survival gear and shared exaggerated tales of cryptid encounters. He had laughed it off at first, but the promise of unlocking an "exclusive prize" had intrigued him. That, and the mention of a real bolt-action rifle locked somewhere in the woods, had been enough to draw him in.

But now, standing here, staring at this... thing, he felt sick.

"I don't want to do this," he muttered under his breath, his voice muffled by the mask. He gripped the muzzleloader tighter, his knuckles whitening. The instructions had been clear: to retrieve the bolt-action rifle, he had to "neutralize" the target and film it as proof.