Though the Man Eaters revel in closing the distance before the slaughter, necessity sometimes demands a kill from afar. Among the Fleshmad, a rare few forsake the frenzied melee in favor of the bow, lingering at the warband’s edges like scavengers shadowing a beast’s feast.

These hunters stand apart from the brutal hierarchy of their kin, their lives spent in patient silence—oiling the strings of their great bows, sharpening barbed shafts, and watching from the treetops. They do not bellow war cries or charge into the fray; instead, they strike unseen, loosing their arrows long before the hunt begins in earnest. By the time their kin descend upon the kill, the best cuts of flesh are already marked by the hunters’ fletching, each kill made from the shadows, swift and silent.

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