Brushing Away the Dust

by **Beshira** on December 9th, 2012, 2:16 am

Time Stamp: 8th of Winter, 512 AV

Lost in the light breaking through the thick canopy of trees, Trista suddenly snapped to attention as she was nudged on the shoulder. Dazedly, she blinked and looked about as though waking from some immersive reverie, her mind fuddled with the snapping links between her imagination and reality. Beshira was standing beside her, her bow slung low by her side and a hand rested on her hip.
“Did you come to watch or not?” Beshira said, impatiently tapping the bow against her leg as she waited for a response. “I know you’re fascinated with nature, but if I recall, you followed me here because you wanted to see me hunt.”
“Sorry,” Trista murmured, massaging the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Go on, I’m right behind you.”
Beshira frowned a little, but let it slide this time. The dead leaves crunched noisily under her feet as she navigated through the forest, pushing aside decaying branches and side-stepping through patches of brush. She occasionally had to glance over her shoulder to make sure Trista wasn’t lagging behind, though most of the times that was what seemed to be the case.
“If you need me to slow down, you can tell me,” Beshira said.
“No, I can keep up,” Trista shook her head. “It’s just…a little cold, is all. It’s a bit hard to stay focused since I usually spend winter indoors, but it’s no trouble.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she grunted, hopping down a short ledge. “Could’ve picked a better season, though. The fog’s going to get in the way and it’ll be harder to bait animals.” She stopped in her tracks, slipping an arrow from her quiver and nocking it into the bowstring.
“Did you find something?” Trista whispered, squatting beside her and squinting into the midst of the fog. “I don’t see anything.”
“I didn’t either,” she answered, “but I know I saw something move.” Beshira inched closer, careful not to snap any twigs or make noise. She hid behind a frost-coated patch of foliage that fell just below eye level when she crouched. “It’s a hare.” Pausing for a moment, she raised her bow and drew back the arrow. “I’m taking it.” Lining up her sights with her target, she held her breath and was just about ready to fire when she noticed the animal’s ears twitch. It leaped to the side and Beshira reacted to the sudden movement, loosening the arrow where the hare had stood a heartbeat before.
“What happened?” Trista asked in surprise, standing up. “You had it!”
“I waited too long,” Beshira said. She scratched the back of her head as she looked aimlessly about her as though she might find blurs of the hare skipping around the dense clouds of fog. “Talk about a stroke of bad luck.” Moving out of her hiding spot, she walked forward and pulled her arrow out of the dirt, brushing some of it off as she inspected it, turning it around. “We’ll poke around a little longer.”

A half hour of roaming yielded shallow deer tracks planted in the dirt, curved at a peculiar angle as though it might have a good sense of where it was heading. Beshira reached into her pack and munched on a few berries from a collection of fruit that she’d picked earlier. It wasn’t exactly the right season to be pulling them off of branches and shrubberies, but they were edible. Several minutes of walking later and Trista was the first one to spot the deer, silently pointing out its location.
“Over there,” she said. “It’s stuffing its face in a bush.”
“I see it, I see it,” Beshira acknowledged, nocking an arrow and pulling back the string. Slowly, she began closing the distance to make for a more accurate shot. At least until she heard her boots crunching in a stray clutter of frail branches. The deer raised its head and bolted in an instant; Beshira took a firm stance instead of pursuing it, drawing her arrow further back. “Oh, no you don’t,” she snarled, narrowing her eyes as she watched the deer line up with her shot for a split second. That was all she needed. She let fly, the arrow whizzing quietly through the mist and out of sight. Lowering her bow, she jogged downhill and found the deer limping away, lurching with an awkward gait as blood trickled from the wound. As the pair drew near, the deer fell onto its side, unable to continue any further.
It was nothing short of a miracle that the conditions had been in her favor to such an extent. Not only did she critically hit the mark, but she was able to launch a clearer shot since the leaves of trees and foliage were growing sparser.
Beshira unsheathed her knife and knelt by its side, striking the killing blow with her blade. She carefully removed the arrow from the carcass, making sure not to cause any damage to the insides. “I’ll put some of the meat in my pack, we’ll skin it and remove the antlers once we get back.”
“Should I help you carry it?” Trista asked, watching Beshira turn the deer over get to work on the corpse. It was a messy thing, to watch an animal die, but in her mind it was all a part of the experience. She’d just have to forget about the more unpleasant moments.
“After I’m finished.”
“The deer isn’t very big,” she noted, crouching down next Beshira with a curious expression. “How much do you think it’ll fetch for?”
“That depends,” Beshira shrugged, slitting its stomach and getting at its insides. “Are we cooking the meat or selling it?”
“I was never a big fan of deer. Father may like it, but he hasn’t been in the mood to eat much lately.”
“I’d wager this one weighs a little more than two hundred pounds. We could still get some decent coin with this from selling every part of it.”
“That was an amazing last-second shot, though,” Trista nodded to herself. “I knew you were a good shot but it’s a real thrill to see it in action up close. I think I’ll split the shares in half between us this time around.”
“That’s rather generous of you,” Beshira said, carving out the heart and tucking it into the folds of several, large dried leaves that had been sitting in her pack. “I remember my first time hunting when I left Wind Reach. It wasn’t so fun back then.”
“I can imagine,” she laughed, knowing full well that she couldn’t. Her life had never been so on-the-edge, and at times, wondered what it would’ve been like to walk in Beshira’s shoes. The two returned home without a word between them.

Beshira, rolled her shoulder around for a bit, craning her neck. It was that time of day again. Trista and her mother had gone down to the bazaar to trade for the deer and she was now alone in the Alvarez residence, save for some books lining the shelves and a pack for cards. Neither of them interested her.
In order to make sure she didn’t outstay her exceptionally long welcome, it was her responsibility to work as a house keeper, cleaning dishes, organizing furniture, helping with cooking; anything that called for attention no matter how small or big the job. Her real occupation involved hunting, and whatever she reaped depended on what animal she brought in and how large it was.
As part of her obligations to the Alvarez family, they would net anywhere from sixty to seventy-five percent of the total earnings and Beshira would be left with the rest of it.
Honestly speaking, though, she didn’t mind it very much. Trista and her mother often pulled their own weight in the household, not to mention the fact that she received free meals and a place to stay. Without them, she wasn’t sure if she’d have ever made it this far.
Her train of thought was interrupted when Thorvald poked his head through the doorway, Trista’s father. In accordance to her words, the man indeed seemed to be a little out of it, slouching his shoulders and letting his gaze drift freely as he walked. It wasn’t like him.
“Hey, big guy,” Beshira said, tilting her head toward him as he spoke. “Don’t look so down.”
Thorvald stopped for a moment, as if he’d picked up something just barely inside his hearing range. Rubbing his eyes, he turned to the girl.
“You’re back, I see,” he said, taking a seat at the dinner table with his hands folded in his lap, facing her. “I thought you’d be here at least an hour or a few hours later.”
“You hoped we’d be here a few hours later,” Beshira corrected him. “Because you didn’t want us to see you like this. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” the man sighed, leaning into the back of his chair. He fidgeted with his thumbs and he struggled to avoid eye contact without making it seem like he was trying to avoid her entirely. “I just haven’t been feeling very well.”
“I can see that much, you old sack of dirt,” Beshira said, fetching Thorvald’s sword and tossing it to him. He caught it messily with both hands, looking up at her in puzzlement. The girl disappeared and came back moments later with a lengthy blade in her hands. Her father’s sword.
“I haven’t seen you touch that thing in years,” Thorvald said, suddenly interested as he bent forward in his chair. His features became more defined and his eyes seemed to light up. “What are you up to?”
“I want to spar,” she said flatly. “Get up.”
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“We’ll see about that,” Beshira said, raising her voice now.
“There isn’t enough space.”
“That’s fine. We’ll make it work.”
Sighing again, Thorvald drew his long sword out of his sheath and gripped it with his right hand, holding it an angle so that the blade ran diagonally across his face from Beshira’s perspective. She held her talon sword with both hands, keeping herself steady and maintaining a stance not unlike her bow stance, setting her hands low near her waist and the weapon vertical.
“That looks like a one-handed weapon to me,” he said.
“I feel more comfortable holding it this way.”
“Whatever suits you.”
The two nodded and Beshira dashed at him, swinging with an incredibly quick horizontal slash. The blow nearly caused him to stagger backwards, astonished by the speed and force of the attack. As she swung again and again, they became wilder, but also more fluid, quickly chaining together and at the same time, making sure she was keeping her movement in check. Thorvald easily blocked and parried her strikes, thrusting and slashing at every opening he spotted; she had no skill, her stance was crude, and her attacks were predictable, yet she was extremely quick. Her first attack had certainly caught him off guard.
The talon sword came crashing overhead against the flat of his blade, giving him the opportunity to knock her back and counter before she could even get her weapon ready again. Shaking it off with something to the likeness of some primal grunt, Beshira charged forward and decided to try propelling the blade forward instead.
Thorvald side-stepped the thrusting attack and he promptly disarmed her, keeping the edge of his weapon held just at the base of her neck.
“I’ve killed you about seven times now,” he commented, pulling his weapon away and driving it back into its sheath. “If you were trying to win, you’re going to need a lot more work on your form before you even come close.”
“Again,” Beshira said, scooping her weapon off the ground. “I can do this all day.”
“I think it’s my turn to ask what the trouble is with you,” Thorvald laughed. “Why are you so interested in using a sword all of a sudden?”
“Again,” she repeated, ignoring his question as she gestured with her sword for him to unsheathe his blade. “We’re going to go at it until I get it right.”
He couldn’t help but smile to himself. It was hard to tell with her, but he presumed that this was her own way of trying to cheer him up. Thorvald hefted his weapon in his hand. It was working.