Whatever I was laying on was driving into my back. With a groan, I tried to roll over, and the sudden jolt of pain turned my full body ache into an unpleasant shock of sharp pain. Falling back flat, I let out a pathetic groan.
“We are safe. Rest,” Snow-in-Blood said somewhere near my feet.
I wanted to rest. In fact, every urgent pain laced message my body was sending me screamed that I should sleep. But the sound of Snowy’s voice disagreed with her words. She didn’t sound like we were safe. She seemed like she was hurting as badly as I was.
Grunting, I opened my eyes to the dark treetops, the trunks near me barely illuminated from a small campfire. Rolling gently to the side, ignoring the pain of sore muscles, I shuffled my body until I could see my companion.
“Are we alright, Snowy?” I asked.
That was something my mother taught me. If someone is upset and defensive, then ask questions that emphasize closeness and inclusiveness. I wanted to know if she was alright. But such a question would sound like an attack or a rebuff at worse. But, ‘are we alright’ tells her that I consider us a unit, a team, and that our condition will be handled together instead of apart. It was a basic manipulation of leadership. That I actually cared about how she felt didn’t make the manipulation any less what it was, it just meant it came from an honest place. That was one of the difficulties of learning these kinds of social tricks. Once you learn them through a structured process instead of through the standard method of being charismatic and personable, they always felt mechanical, disingenuous, and offensive. At least, they did to me.
From across the small fire, Snowy sniffled and wiped her face with her sleeve as she tried to hide her tears from me. Honestly, the sight of the large stoic woman in tears sent a bolt of fear through me. She had been reliable and steady at all times, to see tears come from her threw me. Part of it was that I had been mentally placing her in the role of a man. Her size and strength, her general capability, and her complete difference from the females I dealt with regularly put her in a masculine place in my mind. She wasn’t, though. Despite her size and strength, she was obviously feminine. Her curves, when she was out of her armor, underlined that fact. Yet, for some reason, I treated her as if she was a typical male and would hate any assumption of weakness or emotion. It was just the assumed standard for any social situation with a man you didn’t know well.
Don’t show emotion and pretend that you can’t see theirs.
This put my days of travel and training in another light. I was no longer a companionable travel partner and trainer who assumed the competence of my partner. I was a cold and distant, silent and stern, trainer who drove his pupil into painful and dangerous training. If my breathing idea hadn’t panned out, I would have been all that, and it would have seemed like I blamed Snowy for the failure as well. Given that her father had sent her out with a young man that he only knew through parental reputation, the baron was making the same kind of mental mistake. That, or he was trying to mimic the teaching methods of his own father. Suddenly gaining a child and missing her formative years might have disrupted the typical social dynamics.
Not that I thought Snowy would appreciate being treated like a typical noblewoman, or even your average tradeswoman.
Shaking my head, then grunting from the pain the movement caused, I shifted. I needed to make it easier to see Snowy and make it clear I wanted an actual conversation. In the silence from Snowy trying to ignore her tears, I had drifted into my head in conjecture as I was wont to do. But I actually cared about this large woman, she deserved more than my distracted musings.
“Snowy? What's wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice soothing and calming.
With a poorly hidden sniffle, Snowy turned to face me.
“Why do you call me Snowy?” she asked.
Frowning for a second, I tried to remember when I began to use the nickname but couldn’t remember the exact moment. Shaking my head, I let the contrition soak into my voice.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Your name is just difficult to say in my tongue, and I shortened it.”
She was silent for a moment, but then with a hiccup of a laugh, she said, “You can keep calling me Snowy. I just thought you were trying to call attention to my failure. I like the nickname.”
Now that confused me. What failure exactly? As far as I could tell, the woman hadn’t failed at anything since I met her.
“Failure? Also, are we alright to have a campfire?” I asked while shifting further to face her and the campfire. I wanted to know what she felt her ‘failure’ was, but I presented an alternate topic in case the first was too painful. I trusted that if she had set a campfire, she thought we were safe from a second ambush.
From the small crackling flames, came the smell of roasting meat, and the scent demanded my attention. The ambush was around noon, and we hadn’t stopped to break our fast, and what little food of the morning I had consumed was evacuated from my moment of weakness after the fight. It was deeply ironic that I hadn’t been injured by either of my opponents. Snowy had taken a crossbow bolt, and I was the one suffering in convalescence at her mercy.
“My name is Snow-in-Blood, and I am a child of the Blood Snow tribe. Until I earned the right of a tribal name, I would carry the shame of a name that indicated the dilution of blood from snow rather than a name of strength. It was a brand of shame. If I was Blood-in-Snow, or Red-Dotted-Snow, or any of a hundred others, it would be fine. But the chief named me as weak, and I have failed to wipe my failure away,” Snowy said, her voice stretched tight in pain.
I didn’t know how to respond to that. The idea of a leader naming a child was odd enough, but to do it in such a way to hurt the child was utterly foreign to me. It made no sense, given what I knew of the Northmen either.
“Why would he do that? That’s barbaric!” I said with heated tones.
“My father was right when he said that we do not care if a warrior has a child with foreign blood. It’s only right to bring strength back to the tribe. My mother chose a strong and capable leader. It was good blood to bring to the tribe,” Snowy said. Then her tone turned to that of someone reciting well-repeated teachings, “But she is the shaman, and the shaman can never be compromised for the safety of the tribe. Her priorities and focus must always be on the tribe, just as the chief’s must.”
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With a bitter twist to her lips, she poked at the fire with a stick and then continued, “Also, my mother refused the chieftain many times and then laid with my father. The chief is a small man, skinny and whip-sharp. Built of angles and fast motions; Blood-of-the-Mountain-Cat. He earned his position as a fast and deadly warrior. My father is a huge man, and I grew to resemble him in size. Some whisper that my mother refused Blood-of-the-Mountain-Cat because of his stature, and he took my size as an insult.”
I silently nodded at that. I had been exposed to that type, as well. Someone who compensated for some perceived failure through ruthless competence, but never forgetting or forgiving anything that reminded them of their lack.
“I never earned a new name from the tribe, no matter how many successful hunts. Even felling enemies in defense of the tribe failed to wipe the name away. Finally, I realized the truth. I was used by the tribe as a brand, always poking and jabbing at the chieftain. Nothing I could do would earn me a name because none of them cared for how I felt, and I was too useful to some within the tribe in their move toward leadership,” she said.
“They would never push the chief to change my name, and he would never change it himself.”
I watched the light of the fire play across Snowy’s stricken face, her eyes staring intensely into the flames without seeing.
“You were the first to treat me as capable, to not see me as some barbarian from the north, or try to bed me as a curiosity. I like the name. I like being Snowy,” she said without looking at me, her cheeks suddenly glowing red in the dimming campfire.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to the sudden tension, but the grumble of my stomach broke the growing strain.
Chuckling, Snowy pulled a bit of meat from a skewer and fished a tuber from the coals of the fire, placing both on a wooden plate and depositing them near me.
“The rabbit came from our ambushers. I pulled their corpses into the trees. I couldn’t find your horse, but I had to put mine down. I wasn’t able to hide that corpse,” she said, her tone turning wry at the mention of my much-hated mount.
“Even if my ass and thighs hated her, I hope she headed back to town. Not that it is likely we will see her again. She might wear the baron’s brand, but I doubt that will stop someone traveling away from the county,” I said.
Nodding, Snowy returned to her post at the fire and poked at her own meal.
Without looking at me, she continued her explanation of the aftermath of the ambush, “I searched our attackers. They had polished weapons and some small coins in new leather purses, the same each. An obvious payment,” smiling and snickering, she continued, “the two that attacked me had some skill with a crossbow. They likely had a related skill with a bow or sling, but they were unskilled with the sword.”
At my nod, she continued, “I killed one quick enough, even if he winged me, the other was no danger. His sword was peace wrapped, and he hadn’t even undone the binding!” she said in laughter.
I had to chuckle in agreement. Someone had paid good money and provided decent weapons, but skimped out on paying for trained professionals. Likely they found down on their luck farmers. No one with any talent at combat would miss from that range if they had any skills and someone who leaves the peace binding on a blade before an ambush is incompetent at best.
A peace wrap was a binding of ropes that hold a weapon in such a way that it took time and care to remove the wax and binding. They were usually placed on arms for sale in shops or for transport. Whoever paid for the ambush provided weapons they had recently purchased, and the ambusher hadn’t even considered the need to unbind the weapon. Both of my attackers had steel liberated and ready, but they had been particularly unskilled.
“It took me moments to strike them down, most of that to approach,” she said before she gave me a look of concern.
“I was going to help you, but you were moving like lightning. I have never seen anyone attack so quickly or strike so precisely. It was like you controlled your enemy’s movements as well as your own. Like a dance with blood. Whatever skill you used is formidable, but I am not sure the cost is worth it. You spent most of the afternoon spasming in your sleep,” she said.
Grunting at the rebuke and the strain, I sat up, letting my bed covers peel back as I reached for my plate. It was only then that I realized I was unclothed under my blanket. At my glance beneath the covers and the questioning look, Snowy giggled. Giggled!
“I had to check for wounds. Even a small wound might fester given the filth and blood on you. I was worried about your twitching, concerned that you had some tainted or poisoned wound hidden under the blood, but that was not the case. You are covered in bruises though. What skill did you use? I’ve never seen the like,” she asked.
Shrugging at my nakedness and the obvious cleaning Snowy must have done, I bit into the rabbit. I ignored the taste while I reviewed in my mind the skill increases accrued to meditation. When I checked the skill, I was stunned by the changes.
Meditation - Tier 2: 5
Meditation gives one insight into their own mind, how thoughts flow, and where the river of consciousness runs rough and where it becomes tranquil.
Through a calm perception of the world, the arcane flows through your mind.
Passive Effect:
Lesser: Inner Stability - Slight resistance to effects that would alter your perceptions and actions.
Lesser: Mana Flow - Slight increase in mana recovery.
Active Trigger Effect:
Major: Improved perceptual effects.
Major: Improved mental effects.
Lesser: Mana Sense.
Synergistic with other known mental & physical skills:
[Memorization], [Reading], [Teacher of Skills], [Focused Cut], [Unarmed Combat], [Short Blades], [Combat Awareness].
Father said that life and death struggles could modify skills, that the fear of death could either focus the mind or blur it into uselessness, but I hadn’t believed it would work this well. Moving from a Tier one skill into a Tier two? Two Lesser effects becoming Major effects? And three newly revealed synergies? Though, how those effects related to the odd slowing of time and the ability, I didn’t know. It also failed to explain my ability to ignore the pain and discomfort of such rapid movements, but I was thankful all the same. I would need to carefully document these changes into my hidden Skill journals. Sending off a report of these new changes would earn me a pretty penny from the Trainer’s Guild.
Seeing the carefully neutral look on Snowy’s face as she ignored my blatant skill check, I considered for a moment. It was a sign of trust to share skill information. As her trainer, I had access to her entire status. I didn’t regret demanding it, but it must have left her feeling vulnerable. It felt wrong not to share my skill with someone who had bled defending me.
I shared my new skill with Snowy and had to hide my laugh when the sudden smile broke through Snowy’s calm exterior. I doubted that I would see Snowy as the silent warrior ever again. I had seen beneath the mask, and it would be hard for her to hide behind it once again.