Walking with grand strides the bear trudged through the forest. Long fur upon its body gently swayed as padded paws moved snow. Even so often the animal would lower its head, sniffing the ground. Despite its size, not a single sound could be heard from the brown beast. As if all noise fled from its presence.

  Leaning forward for a better view, joy colored Cymir's face. To see such an animal brought wonder to the youth. An emotion that led to short words of boasts for the proper identification. Yet his companion quickly shushed him. Unlike the youth he lacked such a carefree expression.

  With an arm stretched out the man carefully moved. Step by step backwards. Gently nudging the awestruck student to tread slowly. Warning that the bear before them marked a sign of danger not admiration. Although such a claim gave way to questions more than caution. Despite it's size, how could an immature beast pose a threat?

  "If there is a cub," Menor said, "There is a mother that will kill."

  Curious, the youngster raised an eyebrow. Searching to see if said matriarch stalked, yet not a single other one appeared. Quite odd. He recalled the animals of the region, the Frosted South, tend to hold a larger than average mass and form. How was the bear before them a cub? Its size, even a distance away, was undeniable. Already larger than himself.

  Only a head shake came from Menor. His gaze centered on the beast, yet held an unfocused stare. Instead of seeking through simply sight, sound acted as the second hand. Perception through a secondary means expanded the observable range. Waiting for anything. From the crunch of leaves and sticks to the shuffling of snow. Even the whimper of hiding animals. Anything to identify a greater threat.

  In a single motion he pulled the youngster behind the nearest tree. Hiding themselves from the bear who stood up. Now towering twice its prone height. Where it tilted its head, wiggled a single ear, and sniffed the air. Eager to for a its surroundings; before the beast walked upon all its paws once more. Searching for something. Whatever it was remained unknown. Although such mysterious desire led the animal to wander towards the pair.

  Why was it here and what it desire remained a mystery. Answers to said ponderings were best laid hidden. However the unwitting idiot deemed to indulge in whispers. To those inquires was a blunt analysis attempting to end the loose voice. Opting to mend and force the need for silence.

  "Meadow bears," Menor said, "Dirt, brown fur. Cub. Cold Weather. Meaning lost, wandering cub."

  "Lost cub?" Cymir whispered back, "How did you figure that?"

  Growling back in a low tone, "No injuries. Before blooming period, so only thaws. Adult meadows. Dark green."

  In parallel to the bear's approach the pair slowly moved away. Their pace while a tad slower was enough for safety. Ensuring the youth was behind him Menor charted their course. Each action aimed to keep a tree between both parties. As the trunk would obstruct any eye contact. Such let the two remain hidden. Moving behind another once the cover of the first became too small due to distance.

  One foot after the other. They continued with distance as their goal. Eventually the bear will pick up their scent. Once it did who knew how it would react. Would it follow due to curiosity or flee from the unknown? Either of the choices, or others, were not guaranteed. The only certainty would be the danger of pursuit. Outrunning a bear would be impossible within the environment of frost and snow.

  Menor scooped up a loose rock with a frown. As of now remaining hidden led the animal into a predictable pattern, yet mere moments it would arrive where they were foraging. So now a gamble must be made to prevent tracking. An arm raised with coldness in hand and so he chucked it. The rock spun through the air. Passing the trees before them until it crashed into a distant one.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  The sudden noise froze the bear as it perked its head. Ears stood up listening for the sound's origin. While its gazed stayed locked toward the direction. Not long after a second stone crashed into another tree. Spooking the bear, yet only led to momentarily hesitation as the beast galloped to investigate.

  Finding the scheme successful, the man quickly picked up the pace. Pushing his companion with more force as encouragement. In a near-mumbling whisper Cymir applauded the precision. Only to receive a wordless head shake. What was wrong with that?

  Move. Stop. Toss. Move. This pattern continued for several cycles. For each instance the distance gradually grew, but such continuous hits began to take a toll. The tosser rolled his shoulder. While not in pain showed a limit. It could be considered a miracle that the night-haired one had not missed a single target. Unfortunately the effectiveness of this distraction faded since the bear marred one of the trees. Leaving a quarter of the truck dislodged.

  Watching the wild strength before him, Cymir gave a worried laugh. His mind began to ponder. Maybe... magic could be a solution? Again and again he knew magical arts always solved everything. Especially in moments such as the current one, where physical prowess could not compare. However the same old question acted as a spark. What would work? Conjuring flying icicles to injure the bear? How about stone walls as simple barriers? Maybe even a giant explosion for fear? Unable to decide he choose the next thought that came to mind. A lethal bullet of wind. Where air became compressed and shot. Akin to a invisible dart. So he began remember those lines and lifted his arms-

  Menor grabbed the outstretched limb and a silent glare threatened. Pure lethality emitted from those eyes. Cloaked in a putrid spicy scent the youngster found it hard to breath. Enough to make the youngster trip upon the frosted ground, but the painful grip on his arm kept him upright.

  Without a single word Cymir understood the intent, yet he still asked, "W-what's with that stare? I just thought-"

  "Magic is the last thing we need right now," Menor replied, having judged their safety.

  "But if we kill the it. It dies and we can also sell the fur and stuff."

  "There are many reasons not to. The first. You will miss and when you do either the cub will know where we are or will roar in agony. Then the mother will be running at us. Unless you are confident you will not panic when a giant bear, triple your size, wants you dead. No."

  "What if I-"

  "Second, you do not have your combat authorization. The moment you set that magic off. You will not have future involving magical arts at the Peninsula."

  Eh? While the former statement made sense to Cymir the second brought confusion. How would the Cadastral Association know? Even then he had done so several times. When such a thought became uttered and known the hostile gaze softened to one of disappointment. Under the new stare the youth caught his breath. Learning that the Associations would know without a single proper explanation.

  Returning to the current issues of wild animal, Menor released his grip. He acted as if the prior conversation never occurred. Even if his acquaintance held a conflicted smile with a pained arm. However the man's sight did not revert to the original focus. Instead he looked towards the right. Barely in the distance laid a mound of dirt. Or to be precise the dirty, brown, and long fur of a bear.

  Despite the distance the second beast could be seen laying down. Unlike its pair it had a lazy posture to its form. Where it would mindlessly eat anything it could find using as little effort as possible. At the moment the yellow-ish color of winter thaws waved in its mouth. Cymir, however, barely noticed the brown lump even when he squinted.

  Towards the doubled danger, the competent of the pair took out a metallic whistle. Rolling it between his gloved fingers he waited. The first bear seemed to have wandered elsewhere. At the moment blowing whistle's pitch would be problematic. So with the time barely an hour past midday he told Cymir to wear his snowshoes again. Who groaned in vexation.

  "How many... thaws did we get?" Cymir asked, waddling behind once again, "Didn't feel like... that much..."

  "Including the four you harvested," Menor counted, "About three satchels full."

  "That's like... what twenty mavs?"

  "Its two mavs per stalk of decent quality at the current market, so around fifty. I decided to take a custom request that nets us a bit more."

  "This... really sucked. Let's never... do this... again."

  "Look at the request list next time."

  Distraught, Cymir could not help but laugh. Remembering those early moments he finally understood the pain. The amount of effort for just a trivial amount in return would never feel worthwhile. He vowed to never harvest another thaw again. Specifically if snowshoes were involved. Mayhaps he should look into those competitions?