Feeling particularly manly in your pirate attire, machete at your side, you declare you will find food, real food, manly food. You will find meat. Joe practically grunts in agreement. Zoe sighs and rolls her eyes at both you. Pheh, women. What do they know about life in the jungle.

The three of you stalk into the jungle in a line, with you, your manly self, on point. Your senses are keen, and the world around you unfolds its sights, sounds and smells. Every tree displays its array of green foliage for you, every broken twig a signpost to dinner. The damp earth gives forth a heady aroma, punctuated by clues of recent presences, an acrid hello from a soon-to-be meal. Snaps and cracks from your own footfalls all but cover the subtle sounds of fearful prey slipping away.

There is no escape from the mighty hunter. You are the mighty hunter. Your heart pounds in your chest with cromagnon glee. Up ahead, in a small clearing stands gluttonous salvation, a boar.

Charge!
Circle?
Use Musket