A River Splits

Ghara’s breath is hot on Rigjig’s neck as they lean through the foliage, prompted by voices that cut through the rush of river water. A hand up, palm forward, tells Ghara to stay back; Rigjig knows a bear won’t be left alone by travellers, even if she might. On the bank are two dwarves, not unlike Rigjig himself, filling canteens with water. A load-bearing horse is stationed behind them, bound by a rope one clasps like a lifeline. Rigjig exhales, softly, an approximation of a chuckle; a better trained horse wouldn’t need the rope. A much better trained horse wouldn’t be fixing her with a sideways stare, no doubt connecting Ghara’s bear-stench with her visage.
The two dwarves straighten, apparently having filled their canteens. Their horse stomps at the ground impatiently, but they spare it only a glance.
“We shouldn’t be far, now. The mountain feels almost on top of us,” one says, looking upstream--and they’re right; Rigjig’s own cave is in that same mountain, and it’s very much nearby.
“I should hope they have enough accommodations,” the other dwarf grunts, adjusting his lopsided bag with a tremendous heave, “I think I could sleep for a year.”
This piques RIgjig’s interest, and they tilt their head, hoping to hear more of what’s said. Travellers are uncommon in this area, but travellers with a destination are unheard of. And the two seem to think they’re quite close.
The other dwarf, this one bare of any sort of luggage, pulls himself atop the horse before kicking its sides lightly. It trots forward, the grounded dwarf scrambling to keep up. Rigjig leans forward as they start to move, struggling to hear more of their conversation, when she feels very suddenly Ghara’s fat paw push at her back. She falls forward with a shout, landing with her face in the water. Ghara lumbers over to the water right after with a huff, making a splash as he wades in.
“Wha-” the voice of the horse-mounted dwarf pushes Rigjig to his feet, spinning to place himself in front of Ghara with arms spread.
“My bear! He’s my bear,” they shout, feeling the blood rush out of their face as the two dwarves stare them down. They think maybe the dwarves are about to flee, if not attack, when a grin splits the face of the one carrying the luggage.
“Are you travelling to Mythrite as well?” the dwarf asks, “We could use some extra hands,” he glances past Rigjig, at Ghara, who’s busied himself splashing around in the water. He looks as though he’s spotted a particularly juicy cut of steak, and Rigjig takes a small step to the left, cutting off his line of sight. The other dwarf raises an eyebrow as he steadies his horse, which is eying Ghara with continued suspicion.
“Mythrite… We’re not.” Rigjig says, leveling her voice, “Is that the town you’re headed to? Are a lot of people living there? I haven’t heard of it.”
Still trying his best to reign in his horse, the mounted dwarf sighs. “A mining opportunity is what it is. One that we are going to take another day to get to if we don’t start moving,” he says pointedly, facing his companion for a moment before continuing, “I don’t know how populated it’s gotten, but there’s lots of people on their way, from what I hear.”
“I see,” Rigjig says.
“Are you sure you’d not like to come?” The grounded dwarf looks disappointed, and Rigjig narrows their eyes, remembering the greed with which he’d watched Ghara’s strength.
“I think I’m fine as-is,” she says.
“You’re just going to have to carry it. Come on,” the mounted dwarf urges his companion as his horse begins to trot gratefully away. Said companion hesitates briefly before finally following after, tossing a wave at Rigjig as he goes.
“If you change your mind, just follow the river!” he shouts, disappearing into the trees.
They stand there for a moment, watching the spot the dwarves had left, before water splashed onto their ankles alerts them to Ghara’s lumbering form, just a moment before the bear pushes a fish into her hand.
“Thanks, Ghara,” he takes the fish, running a finger over it’s scales. It’s slimy and cold, though to Ghara’s credit it’s already dead. When they get home he will cook it, seasoned with what he’s found in the surrounding woods, but little else. He’ll eat it whole, no fileting or cleaning, not wanting to lose out on the nutrients contained in even its bones. Tomorrow he’ll do the same, though he may crunch on squirrel’s or shrew’s bones instead.
He’s stayed in the woods for some time, and he knows he’s comfortable here. At the same time, it’s been years since he’s taken a hot bath. Longer since he’s eaten food that someone else had cooked. Rigjig cares for her beasts--and she’s grateful, of course, for their company and support--but there’s a different sort of energy to interaction with other people. And it’s been ages since they had any real indication of where those people even are.
Maybe it’s the first conversation he’s had in years, or the way his wet clothes draw warmth from his skin in a way he hates feeling used to. Maybe it’s the tiger pelt that he’s turned into a makeshift blanket, laid across the cave earth at home, a reminder of people he’s not seen since he was still a teen. Either way, something stirs for Rigjig then. It’s a desire for the warmth of shared space, the pressure of a stage, the joy of a hot meal prepared by someone else.
“I think we’re going to go for a bit of a journey, Ghara,” she murmurs, “We just have to follow the river.”