Gods, that smells delicious...
Ameren peered over the back of her mare toward the campfire. The hillmen had caught a young doe earlier that afternoon and, after days of no fire and cold food, the aroma of roasting venison was damn near intoxicating. She stood there and just stared at the rotating meat for so long that the mare grew impatient of having her grooming interrupted, snorting and giving Ameren a shove to voice her discontent.
"Eh? Oh, sorry, darling," said Ameren sheepishly, scratched the mare's neck and resumed brushing, slowly working the dust and dirt out of her coat. Most evenings had been the same since they started the journey, the camp was set up and the hillmen saw to dinner while Havaldr sat bent over his maps or rested and she took care of the horses, feeding and grooming them, then looking over their gear. The hillmen kept to themselves, sitting together on one side of the camp and talking to one another in their own tongue, while she and Havaldr were on the other side, their own conversations having grown rather scarce. It wasn't strange at all, really, since it was not conversations between two friends anymore, but rather a mixture of Havaldr and his alias Holmwood speaking with the cold and businesslike mercenary Branson, and they had very little in common to talk about to begin with. She preferred it that way, distancing herself from their old friendship and keeping her mind on the job alone as much as possible.
After the meal the others settled in to get some rest, leaving Ameren alone by the fire. The first watch of the night was always hers, then the hillmen took their turns, while Holmwood, being their employer, and quite frankly would have been a stupid choice for making sure nothing sneaked up on them in the dark, got a full night's sleep. Or, a chance of it, at least.
Pain or nightmares, I wonder...
Ameren threw another pair of branches on the fire and looked over at Havaldr as he moved around restlessly in his sleep. His shoulder had started to mend rather nicely, but it would be weeks before he could use his arm properly again. She picked the whetstone from ground and dragged it down along the blade of her sword, checked the sharpness of the edge with her thumb, then ran the stone over it again.
"Why are you always sharpening your blades? You did it just the other day, I saw you! Aren't they sharp enough?"
"Sharp enough, she says. Now listen here, little lassie, when it comes to the things that keep you alive, you need to take care of them properly, right? And if you live by the blade, that means keeping your weapons in the best condition possible. They and their edges are more important than most other things, so you best be sure to check them often and keep them sharp as sharp can be."
Ameren had heard that piece of advice many times over the years, from just as many different sources. Thieves, mercenaries, soldiers, guardsmen, scouts, assassins, they all agreed on that one point. At least the ones who were any good at what they did.
But I heard it from Jasper first. Granted, that man said an awful lot of things, mostly about blades. And plenty of it stuck, too. He was a good teacher, despite being scum. As was Lee. Their methods may have been more than questionable, but I can't argue with the results. I may be shit at protecting a trader against orcs, but people on the other hand, now there's something I know very well. If it wasn't for the very likely outcome of being killed, I may just have been a little bit excited about all this.
She sheathed the sword and started going through the daggers knowing that most of their edges would still be flawless, though making sure never hurt.
