I have no earthly idea if the Shamos bit is true, but it works for my purposes.
—No Shamos—
Red, hound-like bodies litter the ground around you as you return your hammer to the holster between your shoulders. Your thigh hurts where one of them managed to bite down and hang on earlier, blood staining your hide skirt, but you'll live. Your Palico offers a scrap of cloth from his back and you use it to staunch the blood flow by applying pressure.
You don't even bother to carve them, choosing instead to return to base and nurse your wound.
I need you to kill 20 Shamos. Packs of the dreadful little blighters are tearing up the area and making it dangerous for my scholars to do field work.
Take care of them, won't you?
You know she's using you to complete a laundry list of tasks she's deemed unworthy of her attentions, but that doesn't stop you from accepting the quest from your Handler.
Speaking of which, she has been looking at you sideways, and she's questioned on more than one occasion why you choose to keep coming here instead of reporting back to Astera.
The Zenny is good, or so you tell her—and it is. If you're being completely honest, the main reason is that you've begun to look forward to seeing—
A hand waves in front of your face, startling you out of your reverie. An arched eyebrow greets your confused stare and you shake your head to indicate that nothing is amiss. Apparently you've missed half the conversation while lost in your thoughts.
A cool breeze gusts through the veranda, smelling faintly of the ocean and the Third Fleet Master sighs and drags a hand through long hair. "You've been working hard of late. You must be tired."
Actually, a curious energy hums through you, one part excitement and one part anxiety.
"Don't push yourself too hard," she continues, giving you a meaningful look. "An overextended Hunter is a dead one."
Right...
You stretch your legs, wincing as your wound throbs, and the observant woman rounds on you. Though you avoid meeting her sharp gaze, you're suddenly the center of her attention and that makes you hyper aware of her proximity as she looks you over.
Despite the fact that you'd cleaned it before coming here, the gashes—four in all, the middle two being the deepest—are bleeding freely again, making it impossible to hide the injury even through your armor. With practiced hands, the Third Fleet Master strips away leather and she tuts, though she looks a little green around the gills.
"A Shamos did this?" You nod, faintly.
"Foolish. They secrete a toxin that keeps wounds open. Unless you were looking to bleed to death tonight?"
You... Had no idea. Your bewildered expression earns a sigh.
"You there—" This is directed towards your Palico, which had been dozing on a cushion near the doorway. He snaps to attention as she crosses the room to the least cluttered desk and pens a quick message. "Bring this downstairs to the Lynian Expert. Quickly."
He meows, saluting, and after a worried glance in your direction, dashes off.
You're being scrutinized by that dark gaze again and you feel like sinking through the ground to avoid the disapproval there. The desire must reflect on your features because her expression softens and she pats your arm.
"Give me a moment. We'll have you good as new."
...
That night you have trouble sleeping again and you stare up at the ceiling, unable to put your weight on your injured thigh. It doesn't hurt anymore, thanks to the Third Fleet Master's attentions.
The gentle roar of the waterfall just outside your window should have lulled you right to sleep, but your mind won't let you relax, thanks to the Third Fleet Master's attentions.
Had she always been so kind?
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