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It is in every kill that they make.
It is in every muttered prayer for a fallen foe.
It is in every morning that they wake and every night that the sun sets on their deeds for the day. In every calculated shot that they land and all the careless, messy, bullets gone astray, they know.
They know it on their hunts in the off seasons. Out in the quiet of the woods with none but Artur and their thoughts for company. They hunt bigger and stronger prey here, prey that is cunning of a different sort. They hunt to improve, to be better than they are. They try to catch the signs that technology misses, the quiver of a tightly coiled muscle about to jump, the warning rumble of a trapped beast. They try to be quicker, quicker to see and quicker to act.
They hunt to improve and try not to think of what couldn't be saved.
They take care not to forsake what their eyes and ears and nose tells them, so easy it is to forget when the convenience of technology is so near. Some days they hunt unassisted but for their mask. Going back to the old ways and grounding themselves in the feel of damp soil under their boots and the rustle of wind through leaves. They feel the depth of the tracks left behind and the freshness of blood smeared on vegetation as they track the wounded creature. They feel keenly the bumps of the leather straps on raven's bite as they pull it out, and the wet gush of blood when they open a beast's artery with it. They feel when the beast fades and dies. They make sure it dies.
They dedicate this slátra to the Allfather and their fallen ancestors.
When they return from these trips and return to their quarters they are tired and sore from their pursuits. They want nothing more than to dump their gear and collapse into something soft and warm but their own discipline puts them through the motions of cleaning and packing everything away. They clean themselves up too and change, they light the candles, they sit. They wonder if they would have made them proud. Or would they be disappointed in the path they chose? They chuckle softly at the fantasy of that, of someone clucking their tongue and telling them to pursue their interest in the technological. They light a candle to hazy memories and remember them.
They sit and they remember and remember and remember the things that made them who they are and the people they failed along the way.