Aragon did not know how they had fed themselves, in the times Before. But holdless hunted as they did everything else- in secret. With small, makeshift traps, easily hidden in the shadows.
Not iron contraptions in the middle of a public roadway, big enough to wound a runner (of the two legged or four legged variety) taken unaware.
Aragon knew why they had claimed expertise, he thought.
There was nowhere a holdless man could safely tread, outside the walls of High Reaches Weyr.
The cliffs could feel as much prison as sanctuary.
So he said nothing, as he disarmed one of their more poorly placed devices.
In the silence of a warm summer's morning, he heard it. A growling, from the underbrush.
A predator's growl.
Aragon tapped Dukat's arm to draw his attention, before following the sound, palming his knife.
There were children and civilians here, come to play at being a hunter. He would not let them become the prey.
It was a wher. Brown and skinny, eyes squinted against the light of day, one leg entangled with a large metal trap it appeared to have dragged some distance across the plain, to this one spot of shade.
Aragon look towards Dukat. He was a wherhandler. More equipped than Aragon to know what to do next.
