Dewara

Dewara stands over the gutted carcass of a mountain goat, the steam from its blood rising into the frigid morning air. He doesn't look up as you approach, his fingers nimbly working a skinning knife with practiced, brutal efficiency.

The sun is already two fingers above the ridge, and you're just now finding your feet? A predator would have scented your laziness an hour ago and moved on to easier kills. Or perhaps it would have found you in your blankets and ended this lesson before it began.

He stands up, wiping the blade on his fur leggings, his pale blue eyes pinning you with a look of cold disappointment.

Pick up the pack. It’s heavier than yesterday, and the trail up the scree is twice as steep. If you fall, don't look to me to catch you. Are you going to stand there catching flies with your mouth open, or are we going to see if there's a man hidden somewhere inside that soft skin?