Shadowheart awoke to Minthara's kicks.
The kicks weren't violent, just abrupt. But that didn't register as dreams of vengeful goddesses and waterfalls shattered around her.
"Get up!" The barking orders brought Shadowheart around and she remembered where she was.
"What is it? Are we under attack?" Minthara's frantic energy infected her, and she felt adrenaline race through her. Tangled in her bedroll, she dove for her mace.
"On your feet, girl. I do not tolerate dawdling." Then Minthara turned and strolled away. Shadowheart was left to sit there, panicking and confused.
We're not under attack. She's trying to rattle me.
The realization brought rage to her. And rage was clarifying.
"What is—" she began, but Minthara was already gone, her presence like a shadow disappearing behind a torchlight.
"We go now. Follow or be left behind."
And then the Drow was striding out of camp.
"Wait! By the gods!" Shadowheart gathered her things like a greedy dragon. Throwing her supplies into her pack, struggling to roll up her bed, while gathering her weapons.
Minthara granted her no time. By the time Shadowheart caught up, By the time Shadowheart caught up, her armor chafed over rumpled sleepwear, going from uncomfortable to painful. But Minthara gave her no time to switch to her gambeson. The Drow's relentless pace didn't afford time to properly attached her shield or prepare her spells.
Half an hour later, Shadowheart was sure she'd left supplies at camp. Her pack was too light.
"Great job. I think we've left food and water back there. What was the meaning of…"
Minthara cut her off.
"You will not speak unless spoken to." She said with a kind of glee. Like she had been waiting for the moment. A way to knock her down and make her feel small.
The Sharran gritted her teeth. More games.
"Haven't you had enough fun at my expense?"
The slap was forceful and caught her high on her face. Her vision temporarily spun. When she regained her footing, she gave a snarl of bitter resolve.
"Speak again, and I'll strangle you."
Maybe it was the ice in Minthara's eyes. Maybe it was the way she lifted herself up and glowered down at her. But the intent was there. She wants to do it. It was a test. Or bait. Shadowheart's face shifted one of disgust and shock. But she didn't speak.
Minthara whirled around and continued a relentless pace through the Underdark.
For the next eight hours, Minthara led a gruelling trek with no stops for rest, no chance for Shadowheart to refill her water skin, just a raw physical ordeal of marching and climbing, jumping and near constant awareness of the hazards of the Underdark.
At one point, Shadowheart was struggling to get her shield attached when her foot became caught in creeper vines, she stumbled forward and smacked her face on the rim of her own shield. Drops of blood landed on the metal. Minthara didn't even glance back to see if she was hurt.
She smeared the blood on her sleeve and kept moving.
By the time Minthara called a halt, Shadowheart was so exhausted she stepped into the clearing and stumbled over an ironshroom and tumbled to the ground.
"You will set the camp. Prepare a fire. Fetch water from those Hilrin filter plants. Go."
"Give me a moment." Shadowheart breathed.
"There was a Drow patrol two days behind us. Of course, you didn't notice with your dawdling. They'll catch up soon. Travel with them, if you like"
The girl dragged herself up, she let her armor fall. The weight was too much. Her mind was so scrambled, she couldn't tell if Minthara was telling the truth or not. So instead, she stumbled to movement.
She fumbled setting up the fire. Her hurried efforts to refill the water skins earned a nasty scratch from the thorns on the filter fungus. When she returned, Minthara was waiting with another biting comment.
When Shadowheart made a broth of meat and mushrooms, Minthara took the lion's share and tasted it. Shadowheart didn't wait for her to complain. She filled her own bowl with a scowl. The Drow hissed.
"If you are going to perform at half capacity, then you can subside on half capacity." With a sudden jerk, she tipped Shadowheart's bowl. Nearly all of it spilled on the cold stone. She watched the pieces of meat rest, dirty and dusty. The broth falling into the cracks of the stone.
The next morning, Minthara awoke her with a shout that seemed to come right in a moment of deep sleep. Shadowheart awoke so disoriented she got up and tripped and fell into the ashes of the fire.
Another day of forced marching followed. And endless drive to deeper territory. The next morning after, Minthara awoke even earlier, sending sharp curses her way until she was practically running from the camp.
In a fleeting moment she invoked Shar in her mind, but there was nothing but a cold absence. What comfort could she have even if she felt something? Her throat ached and her mind was parched. Comfort needed room to breath and Shadowheart had no such room.
The days bled together for Shadowheart. Minthara dragged them into combat with passing black slimes. Predatory mushroom hawks and even an ice drake.
Shadowheart hadn't prepared in a spell in days. By camp time, she had a sprained thumb, a gash on her ankle and her hip was practically screaming at her with every step. At one point she tried to collect water from a stone.
Almost as soon as the fire was lit, Minthara sat opposite her and leveled her with a cold stare.
"My boots. Now."
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep and the lack of food and water. Maybe it was the near constant barraged of insults and cutting remarks, faster. Sloppy. Are you trying to get us killed? Are you blind?
Desperate for rest, Shadowheart approached. She undid the Drow's boots. Removed them from her feet. Stared at her pale blue skin…
She told herself it was nothing. Just a trick to buy rest. But the way Minthara watched her—quiet, pleased—made her stomach turn.
She stared at Minthara's pale feet, streaked faintly with travel-dust, the arch of them elegant and cruel. Her pride screamed. But her limbs wouldn't listen.
One kiss. Then another.
A bargain was struck in silence.
After, she didn't meet Minthara's gaze.
Minthara said nothing. But the next day's pace was kinder. The map came out. The bark became praise.
A reasonable pace was set. She allowed for rests. The torrent of verbal abuse slowed.
When they rested for the night, Minthara even handled some of the tasks herself. But that came with a cost. It cost Shadowheart her hands and knees. Her obedience. Her dignity.
But sleep and food were worth more right now.
Perhaps the ritual meant more to Minthara because she became… almost kind over the next few days. Praise. Actual praise and compliments reached Shadowheart.
"Well found."
"Good."
"Rest."
Minthara's whole attitude shifted. She no longer paced like a predator. She didn't watch Shadowheart like a murderer plotting what arteries to cut. She reclined and read. She studied her maps.
But she was always insistent on the rituals of control. Shadowheart had to do all the cleaning, polishing, preparing of camp and cooking. Fetching water or mushrooms
Now, the violence was gone—but the leash remained. Tighter than ever. Woven not of fear, but pride."
She didn't know what was better—or worse. Only that her knees no longer ached as much as her silence.
