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When the time of the great hunt approached, the ancient Ests would fall silent in anticipation, as the earth stills before thunder. It was not merely a time of harvest—it was a sacred rite, where the world of the living brushed against the breath of spirits and the whispers of ancestors.

The elders, their faces carved by time, rose before dawn to light the cleansing fire and walked into the groves, where the roots of trees remembered the footsteps of forefathers. There they called upon the spirits of the forest, the wind that carries knowledge, and the voices of those who had crossed into other worlds. “Grant us strength and clear sight, not for greed, but for the life of our kin,” they whispered in the old tongue known only to the land itself.

When the hunters ventured into the woods, they did not do so with bloodlust, but with reverence. Every animal that fell to a sure arrow or spear was received not as prey, but as a gift. They bowed their heads over the creature’s body, touched the earth, and gave thanks to its spirit: “You were swift and strong, you lived with honor, and now your life will continue in us. We will not forget you.”

The meat became food, the hide turned into clothing, the bones into tools and charms. Nothing was wasted, for every part of the creature was sacred. Thus continued the cycle of life, in which the hunt was not an act of violence but a rite of passage, where blood was not a curse, but a sacrifice for the sake of survival.

Such was the way of the Ests—who listened to the voice of the forest and followed the ancient law: to take only what is given, and always—with gratitude.

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