He sat on the edge of a flat surfaced rock in front of the cave, a little gloomy but nonetheless focused and composed, he felt shivers as the cold chill of the northern wind hit his back, announcing ominously the departure of the Sun, and the inevitable arrival of the night. 'it has been a long day' he thought to himself, even though he didn't keep count, the sun was generous that day, all the more reason to be afraid of the dark, he took his dagger out of his pocket, it was still dripping, little red drops of fresh blood, he frowned at the misfortune, 'my pocket is now all dirty and smelly' he said with a hint of discomfort, two meters to his right side laid the body of a beast, dead and markedly injured throughout, its throat visibly slit and still pouring hot blood in progressively weakening thrusts, the beast gave its last jerks and went cold, the hunter looked at it, 'you hear that' he said mockingly, 'at least you managed to foul my cloth'
Short stories about bounty hunters