Having lost his vision in an accident long, long ago, the weaving, winding, waxing dance of light playing with shadow being but a distant memory, this bold young hunter must rely on other methods sundry and challenging to collect his wits, his whereabouts and most importantly his rewards. A waft of air carries the scent of his quarry, the slender stalk of grass bends to the weight of a heavy paw, the earth quakes in protest as otherworldly entities tred upon it with blasphemous intent. In some ways, unable to see makes it all the easier, for where there is light there is vision and where there is vision there is fear. Where other hunters would be subsumed into fear of the beast, he cannot. It is no different that a great mammoth or a wild elk, merely another quarry for him to pursue. The stakes being elevated mean naught to him - he can hear his foe approaching from miles away, can smell his shaggy, loutish hide from the densest cluster of trees, and can even determine its temperature from the vibrations in the air. The accident was not a misfortune - it had been a blessing in disguise.
Plus, the ladies like scars, so there's that. Unsheathing his dagger, he couldn't help but smirk.