Gator Hunters
The families that hunt the Oaken Swamp have been doing it for generations, some claiming the tradition stretches back before the Fall. Gator hunting is not a job in the southern swamps; it is an identity, passed from parent to child alongside the knives, the boats, and the bone-deep knowledge of where the big ones sleep.
They work in teams of six or more, launching by boat into the swamp with guns, knives, and the kind of quiet coordination that comes from a lifetime of shared experience. When a gator is downed, the carcass is towed to the outskirts as quickly as possible to avoid attracting undead. The skins are the primary commodity, fetching premium prices from Pure Bloods who use gator leather for armor and clothing. Meat is secondary but still valuable. The trade sustains a network of surrounding towns and cities, all served through the Gator Tooth Outpost at the swamp's edge.
The Gator Hunters are violently territorial. Poachers who infringe on their claimed hunting grounds go missing, and the swamp keeps the evidence. Dressed in patched clothing for mobility, armed to the teeth with knives strapped along their bodies and shotguns at the ready, the Hunters smell like the swamp they live in and make no apology for it. The swamp is theirs, the gators are theirs, and anyone who disagrees is welcome to take it up with the mud and the water.
They work in teams of six or more, launching by boat into the swamp with guns, knives, and the kind of quiet coordination that comes from a lifetime of shared experience. When a gator is downed, the carcass is towed to the outskirts as quickly as possible to avoid attracting undead. The skins are the primary commodity, fetching premium prices from Pure Bloods who use gator leather for armor and clothing. Meat is secondary but still valuable. The trade sustains a network of surrounding towns and cities, all served through the Gator Tooth Outpost at the swamp's edge.
The Gator Hunters are violently territorial. Poachers who infringe on their claimed hunting grounds go missing, and the swamp keeps the evidence. Dressed in patched clothing for mobility, armed to the teeth with knives strapped along their bodies and shotguns at the ready, the Hunters smell like the swamp they live in and make no apology for it. The swamp is theirs, the gators are theirs, and anyone who disagrees is welcome to take it up with the mud and the water.
