Elsha's Bounty Hunter (in my own mind chall.)
I came upon the campsite from above, up in the tangled limbs of the thick forest. I had followed the bounty hunter below from limb to limb as he trudged determinedly and noisily on the trail barely marked by human feet.
There were several of my acquaintances seated around the fire. They had eaten and the sun was setting, one was ready to start playing guitar. The bounty hunter strode arrogantly into the campsite, “Where is Elsha?!”
“We don’t know anyone by that name,” the guitarist calmly asserted. Silently, I cheered from my perch. These were still my allies.
“I know she’s here! I’ve followed her trail!” The bounty hunter drew his machete.
“Well whoever she is, she’s not here,” defended another compatriot. My heart swelled. But it was time to act. The bounty hunter stepped right below me. I jumped, landing on his shoulders and knocking him to the ground, the force blacking him out long enough to bind his hands and feet.
“That was awesome, Elsha!”
“Yes, but there will be more.”