By The Moon's Blade

2. Grasshaven, Two Weeks Ago

There's no denying the rut that I find myself in and after months of trying, it feels like nothing will ever change. I sit at a table, once again by myself, next to the morning fire. With every bit of training I've put myself through, I should want to eat helping after helping of the eggs and duskdeer sausage served up this morning. But after everything, my appetite is shot, and I continue to pick at the meager portion on my plate.

My mind is cycling through a myriad of options, most of which end in my decapitation and disembowlment on the floor of the forest. I've seen myself die more times that I'd like to and at this point, I'm almost numb to the possibility. But I continue to try and reach within that pit and pull whatever survival instinct I can out of the depths.

As I watch the flames lick against the metal pot hanging on the center, I see a familiar face shuffling slowly behind the fire, a cup in her hands with steam curling above. And before I even realizing what I'm doing, I rise from the table and begin to follow her back to her cottage.

Talking to Maroka may be a bad idea. But I'm feeling desperate at this point. I just have to make sure that I don't let anything slip. I just need some sage advice and I don't believe it's a coincidence that she passed by at that very moment. All I can hope is that she decides not to push the topics.

As I approach the cottage, Maroka has already gotten settled into her white chair, swaying back and forth as she watches the sun as it peeks above the trees. I hesitate to approach as I remember the last time I was here, that day we laid my mother to rest. I taste those eggs and sausage coming back up as I try to will my away from the thought of her body laying in the ground behind our house.

And as I'm lost in thought, Maroka must have heard the crunch of the leaves as I'm interrupted by a question,

"Rozi? What are you doing here?"

I freeze for a second and try to regain my composure.

"Hey, yeah, I saw you around the fire this morning and wanted to chat with you about a few things."

Not a lie.

"Sure, you want to go inside? We can get some privacy."

I nod and she slowly rises from her chair, old bones creaking with the weight of experience and knowledge that she's gained throughout her long life. Not many people have lived as long as Maroka has, not with the threat of war, lack of sustenance, spread of disease, and everything that threatens life for anyone not seated at the highest room in a tower.

We enter into her one-room cottage and she lights a few candles using a small tinderbox. A comforting, earthy musk wafts from the wax as I help her come to a comfortable position on the pillow-covered floor in front of a low table. I make my way around the table and sit down across from her, watching her size me up. Not in an intimidating way, but with a curious eye.

"So, Rozi, what brings you here on this fine day?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to chat with you about some issues I'm having with my hunting. There are a few techniques I can't quite seem to get down."

Maroka's eyebrows raise.

"Surely, there are others in this village better suited for those kinds of questions. Unfortunately, these frail bones don't really take me any further than the campfire and my garden, nowadays."

"Oh sorry, I guess I should clarify. It's about these techniques but I feel like it's less of a skill gap and something that's not connecting mentally. I feel like my head is clouded with so much and it's making hard to... shoot a bow."

She nods. If she knows that I'm lying, she's not letting it show.

"I see. Well, I do know a thing or two about centering the mind."