The Gnome watched again as the sun set from his treestand—another day without spotting the elusive peryton. He was growing bored of sitting in a tree waiting for the creature to emerge. He’d sat up there for days, listening to squirrels bicker and crows laugh at him. But the Gnome knew his best chance at arrowing the winged stag would be to keep sitting right where he was.
This wasn’t like hunting a whitetail or even an elk. The Gnome had picked a tall old tree by an open meadow because he expected the creature to fly in, not just step through the trees. What made this meadow so special, you might ask? It was filled with black trumpet mushrooms, also known as the “horn of death.” And they just so happened to be a peryton’s favorite forage.
The Gnome had found the flush of black fungi last fall. He was delighted to fill his pack with the earthy delicacies, but even more so when he heard the whisper of great wings overhead. He looked up to see the underbelly of a giant peryton soaring overhead, huffing at the Gnome for finding his mushroom patch.
He’d always wanted to harvest a peryton but had never been able to track one down. They’re enigmatic creatures that tend to reside in the darkest of timber or the highest of peaks. Hunting one is thought to be a fool’s errand, due to their cagey temperament. But the Gnome couldn’t get the idea of an elk-sized chicken wing out of his mind. His mouth watered at the thought.
Luckily for the Gnome, he knows that the pertyton can’t resist the pungent fragrance of a flush of the horn of death.
So the Gnome built a treestand nearby and impatiently awaited the next fall, when he hoped the mushrooms would resurface and draw the strange winged creature back with their illustrious stench.
He’d sat in the stand for six days in a row. Every day, more mushrooms emerged until a carpet of black holes covered most of the meadow.
On the seventh day, while walking in under the cover of night, the Gnome was smacked with the musky smell of overripe fruit far before he reached the treestand. He knew the peryton wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.
He sat patiently in the stand, waiting for dawn to break. The first threads of light broke over the horizon and caught the dew glistening on the black trumpets littering the ground below him. And then, he heard it—the rhythmic whisper of great wings beating across the sky.
The Gnome stayed as still as he could, fighting the urge to look skyward and scare off the beast. Only when he heard the definite thud of its hooves landing on the sodden ground did he dare raise his head to steal a glance.
The creature was incredible. A massive set of antlers crowned his head, and as it folded the wings into its body, their iridescent feathers reflected the morning light. He took a deep breath and drew his bow.
The arrow flew straight into the heart of the beast, it bolted for a few steps, and collapsed into a bed of the horn of death.
After a few moments of marveling the peryton from the stand, the Gnome climbed down. He gathered a handful of the ripe, black fungi and placed the bouquet in the jaws of the creature with one hand, while the other found purchase in the feathers that were longer than his arm. After a moment of reverence, he pulled out his knife and began butchering.
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