5:19 AM, 22nd of March
This morning was a little different. A little special.
This morning, Wolf hunted as a pack. A pack of two to be precise, with both of them presently nestled in undergrowth, each waiting in their own variation of [STILLNESS]. Wolf’s was a rigorous and practiced one, as befitted a soon-to-be-septuagenarian retired Assassin of her caliber. Elshka’s [STILLNESS], understandably, was a little raw. A little rough around the edges, as parts of her agitation—hesitation—spilled out in discernible waves.
Without taking her eyes off the quarry, Wolf reached over and placed a hand on Elshka’s bony shoulder, imparting some of her own [STILLNESS] as she did. Within the central focus of Wolf’s [SENSES], she heard Elshka’s heart settle and her breathing even out. This in turn imbued the Assassin’s own [STILLNESS] with a sense of calm and belonging. Hiding a contented sigh, she gave herself anew to the wait.
For this—the waiting—was her favourite part of the hunt. Her oneness with her mountain. Her connection with her (self-proclaimed) apprentice. Everything she loved about her humble existence here in the uncharted forests of Shved Mountain was contained within this period of waiting.
But all hunts must end with a kill, and this one was no exception. As an Assassin and her apprentice nestled in undergrowth and waited in [STILLNESS], their quarry stepped into the light, now completely oblivious to their presence. It was a young buck, fresh off an early morning nibble, with his mossy antlers gleaming amidst the rays of sunlight that peeked through the canopy. He stepped into the light and bent toward a watering hole, unwittingly presenting the perfect angle for a hunter and her well-trained aim.
A hiss of air being pushed through a chamber. Elshka steadied her steam-rifle—custom-built by her father to fit her size and purpose—and fired. A dart, with its finer and more discriminate brand of violence than that of a railway spike, shot out of the barrel and flew—true and straight—into a spot just above the deer’s shoulder. The deer fell, with nary a whimper, and after a few fraught seconds, it too became still.
Beside her, Wolf felt with certainty Elshka’s [STILLNESS] evaporate in an instant. Harder to ascertain, however, was what exactly had taken its place. The girl rose from her patch of undergrowth, silently, with her grip on her rifle loosening at the same time.
Wolf watched the distinct curl of Elshka’s lips, reading the childish delight contained therein. She saw the hesitant flickers of the flames in Elshka’s eyes, and understood that delight was tempered by solemn reflection. She listened also to the beating of Elshka’s heart—and the notes of darkness that had taken root there, ever since innocence had been lost to the chuffing maws of a tyrant’s train.
Wolf took all of this in and held it within the central focus of her [SENSES]. She reached again for Elshka’s shoulder, felt it ever so slightly flinch in response, then spoke, in as gentle a tone as her gravelly throat could manage, “Well done, little one. Now, let me show you the hardest part of a hunt.”
Field dressing, repacking their load, and the long trek back home. Normally, Wolf would speed through these steps in her relief to be done with her task, but this morning was a little different. A little special. This morning, she took her time, guiding her young apprentice through a kill's immediate aftermath in gruesome and anatomical detail. Through it all, she also watched, saw, and listened, taking everything in and giving back whatever she could spare in turn.
Assassin and apprentice then made their way down the hills, following Marmot Creek back to Wolf’s hut and the promise of a hearty breakfast. It was slow going—much slower than was usual, even for Wolf and her ever-aching knees—and it wasn’t just because of the fifteen extra stone that weighed them down (three of them on Elshka’s bony shoulders). No, the two hunters walked slowly and talked, relishing each other’s company on a bright spring day.
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“Did you know the Imaginarium Brittanica is coming back to Franzmark next month? I can’t wait to see Aunties Salt and Pepper again!”
“That soon, eh? Don’t they ever run out of… you know, ‘material’?”
“Aunty Linlin just showed me one of her grappling techniques. Can I try it on you, Wolf? Oh, can I?”
“You’d probably do better to find a bear to practice on. Not sure my creaky joints can withstand a grappling technique of the Yuan discipline.”
“Did I tell you? Father’s taking me to Professor Dominguez’s next seminar! The Analytical Engine: Frontiers of Computational Algorithm. Doesn’t that just sound marvellous?”
“What it sounds like to me is that the new fangles just keep getting newer and fanglier.”
Wolf didn’t even mind the lulls in the conversation, like the one she found herself in presently. Walking in shared silence, within the shared confines of the mountain. In a way, it was just another form of waiting. Of connecting. Of building.
“Father also said…” Elshka was the first to break the silence, as she was wont to do. This time, however, her voice was quiet—dampened by shadows that flitted in and out of the sunlight. “Father said they haven’t found him yet. And soon… they might stop looking.”
Wolf’s steps slowed. Elshka’s stopped altogether, forcing the Assassin to turn and face her young halfling of an apprentice. Elshka’s lips, along with the little tusks that poked out of them, now trembled slightly, reflecting the wavering flames of her eyes.
Wolf remained silent. She, of course, knew what yet ailed and frightened her young apprentice. For the same things yet ailed and frayed her own weary mind. A months-long search for the Urlking and his remains—his Crown—had turned up nothing. Not even any signs of the Tactician woman that had followed him into the depths of the canyon.
The thought of it ailed and frayed Wolf’s mind. And yet, she was also calm. Remarkably so, considering what she went through just a few months back—no, what she’d gone through for more than thirty years.
Be that as it might, today, as with most days in recent weeks, she was calm. In fact, she often surprised herself with just how little she thought about Edwina Hofstra these days. And even when she did, the thought merely presented as a dull—not even an ache, but more like discomfort. Like an old scar that stretched and bent a little funny compared to the rest of her skin. Yes. Her own indifference did surprise and even worried her a little bit.
But, in the (imagined) immortal words of Linlin Yuan, now not time for pointless musings. For now was the time to be present—fully and unabashedly—for a scared young child who needed someone to look up to.
“What will you do, Wolf?” Elshka asked in a voice that grew quieter by the word. “What will you do… if the Urlking or someone like him ever comes back?”
Wolf pretended to think about it for a second, even though she already knew her answer, fully formed.
“You know me, Els. I’m a lazy grumpy old hag who just wants to be left alone with me and my mountain. If the Urlking does ever come back, I hope—believe—that I won’t have to lift a finger. That there’ll be someone younger and livelier than me to take care of the problem.”
Elshka frowned, with Wolf’s non-answer having done little to smooth over the fears that had given rise to the question. Wolf merely chuckled, admitting to the deficiencies of her own words, while hiding the parts of her answer that had been left unsaid.
And if that someone isn’t yet ready to take up the fight, then… I suppose there’s still some fight left in this retired Assassin.
She left the answer unsaid and instead reached again for Elshka’s shoulder, this time hoping to break through the shadows that clouded the heart of her young apprentice. She didn’t know if she was even capable of such a feat, but she knew she would give it her honest attempt. She’d try, try again, and keep trying after that. After all, time was something of which she had plenty to give.
Somewhere along the rest of the trek back home, during another one of an Assassin’s and her apprentice’s companionable lulls in conversation, Wolf was reminded of a song. More like a ditty, really: a silly little rhyme that didn’t even rhyme but was nevertheless oft-repeated by the wildlings of Shved Mountain she’d spent her childhood with. It went something like this:
Old wolves never die,
No, they never die,
Old wolves never die,
They just fade away
THE END