Completed [Skyhigh Stables] No Place Like Home

[Zhol]

|.38 Summer, 514

“Easy, horse. Easy.”

The words tumbled off his tongue in Pavi, a gesture for calm forming on his fingers in Grassland Sign. The beast before him understood neither, yet, but he would learn. It made more sense than trying to placate it with the broken few phrases of Nari he was capable of. In truth, the words mattered little; far less at least than his tone and calm, steady movements, all conducted in full view of the colt’s eyes.

With one hand, he carefully twisted another loop of rein around his fingers, the other hand with which he had spoken resting gently on the horse’s muzzle. It shuddered a little beneath his touch, still not entirely at ease; but Zhol could feel the distress slowly falling away, blown out in sputtering breaths. Zhol mustered a smile, his resting hand smoothing down the smudge of white fur in the middle of the horse’s seal brown nose.

“There. All better, friend.”

Zhol’s hand fell away, patting the colt’s neck. It stamped a hoof against the lichen-covered floor, fidgeting a little, no doubt consumed with the agitating residue that always lingered in the wake of anxiety and frustration. Zhol wasn’t sure what had happened to spook the colt so badly, but he knew the feeling of that aftermath well; it was the sensation he had awoken to from the nightmares on far too many mornings of late. Unpleasant a train of thought as that was, it did at least suggest a solution for the colt’s distress; the same solution that dragged him from the caves at near dawn each day.

Looping the reins securely around the frame of the colt’s stable stall, Zhol retreated through the eerily empty stables, the sound of his bootsteps against the stone floor echoing ominously. Idly, he wondered why it was that the Inarta had carved out so much room: space for two hundred riding beasts and beasts of burden that as far as he knew, their culture seldom used. Was it history, some relic of a past that Zhol knew so little about? Was it preparation, for needs that might arise in the future? There was so much about Wind Reach, and about the Inarta, that Zhol’s short time amongst them had not given him the opportunity to learn, and most of that which he did know came from half-memories of the stories he’d been told by his father as a child: even that which he thought he knew was not necessarily the truth.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he stepped into the tack room, pledging to remember to ask the Chiet girl about his wonderings the next time he saw her. His heart fell a little as his gaze settled upon the array of saddles; not a Yvas in sight. His hips ached preemptively at the toll he knew the hardened leather was about to take upon him; at the rate things were going, the wear and tear would make him a gelding even before the colt became one.

He hefted the saddle and it’s trappings onto his shoulder, and meandered his way back through the maze of stables. The moment he came into view, the colt’s demeanour changed; Zhol could see the recognition behind it’s eyes, and sense it’s clear anticipation and excitement, but to it’s credit the colt became a statue, waiting patiently as Zhol hung the saddle over the stall’s gate, and slipped inside. Words in the common tongue muttered from Zhol’s lips as he attached the tack and trappings to the colt, reciting the instructions that Avik had given when he first arrived. Buckles were fumbled; items attached in the wrong order, removed and replaced; but throughout the colt remained calm, waiting for the open space and softer ground that such attachments promised.

“I wish you could tell me your name, friend,” Zhol said at last, the final buckle tightened to his satisfaction. A pat of gratitude clapped against the colt’s shoulder; the horse let out a snort in reply, head bucking upwards, as if gesturing towards the gate.

Zhol smiled, and chuckled, freeing the reins from where they had been secured. “Come on then,” uttering words in common this time. He backed out of the stall, and hooked a left instead of a right, leading the colt away from the indoor arena where Kami had disappeared an hour before to teach lessons, and towards the great outdoors. “Lets get you some fresh air.”

This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

The wind ruffled Zhol’s hair as he cantered through the terraced pastures that lined the road beyond the city gates. It was an odd sensation, and one to which he had not yet grown accustomed. Back home, if he still had any right to refer to Endrykas as that, hair had special significance. The longer it was, the more mature you seemed to be; the more complex the plaits and braids, the higher your status. Yet, Zhol’s hair was cropped as short as a knife and a crude reflection had allowed; shorter than it had ever been since he had been old enough to stand on his own two feet.

If Zhol closed his eyes, he could still hear and feel his father’s knife slicing the first braid from his head. It had been a symbolic gesture more than anything; a sign to Zhol and to others that in the eyes of his family and clan, he was nothing; less than nothing. Zhol’s father had thrown the braid at Zhol’s feet in disgust and turned away, never to lay eyes on his son again; the rest had been done by Zhol’s own hand, carving away the only trait that made him look any different from an ordinary man. He had shaved and carved almost to his bare scalp, the cuttings and what remained of his Drykas self scattered across the Sea of Grass by the breeze. He had done nothing to it since, the tufts and ruffles growing out as his respect for himself grew oh so slowly back.

It had been freeing at first, but it changed things; it was strange to feel the chill of the wind so readily; strange not to feel the braid bounce against the back of his neck with each rise and fall of the horse beneath him. The sensations were new, different, and a painful reminder; just as he hoped they would always be.

He tugged gently against the reins, and pressed a little harder against the colt’s flank, steering their course in a sweeping arc that brought Skyinarta back into view; pulling back, he eased the colt to a halt, and gazed upon what lay before him. The sight of the mountain of fire had taken his breath away when his eyes had first looked upon it, just as they had every time since. It was one thing to hear the stories that surrounded it, another thing to see it with your own eyes; and something else entirely to realise that amongst the caves and tunnels worn and carved into the rock face was the bed in which you spent your nights. To the Inarta it was merely home, and such a habitat could not be any more normal; but for Zhol, raised upon endless rolling plains of green, spending his nights beneath canvas or beneath the open sky and stars, it was another novelty that he was yet to accept as the status quo.

The colt sputtered out a breath, stamping a divot into the pasture with his hoof. Zhol leaned forward, a reassuring hand brushing down the side of the colt’s neck. “I know, friend,” Zhol said with a sigh, his familiar native words uttered once again. “I don’t much like living in caves either.”

Zhol was grateful to be there: that was important to remember. He was grateful that the Inarta had welcomed him into their society; grateful that they valued his skills enough to make him an Avora; grateful to share their food, share their home, find work in their stables, and above all be accepted in spite of, and even because of who he was. He had no regrets about choosing this place to start a new life for himself: it was just a little difficult letting go of his past.

A shiver ran through him as the light shifted as the sun began to dip below the mountains, a cool breeze swooping down the valley. That was something else to which he had yet to grow accustomed: they called this summer, but having been raised so much further south, he was used to that word meaning something a little more warm.

He kicked his heels and spurred the colt into motion, the trampled and uneven ground of the pasture racing away beneath. His legs encouraged the colt to run faster, stride transforming from a canter to full gallop. Ahead, the transition from one level of the pasture to the next loomed; Zhol spurred the colt on faster still, hooves thundering away beneath him as he rose up on the stirrups, hunched as close to the colt’s body as they could. The world became a blur. One last kick, one tug on the reins, and the colt leapt -

Something shifted; a boot slipped free; and next Zhol knew everything was tumbling, the ground rising up to meet him at an alarming rate. He didn’t know how he managed to twist his other foot free, but didn’t have time to dwell; the ground slammed into his shoulder, pain racing across his chest and shooting down his arm. He tumbled, ground and sky taking it in turns to race past his vision, the ground biting and grazing at his exposed flesh. He came to a stop at last but almost wished he hadn’t; the lack of motion and absence of panic allowed pain to fill his mind instead.

“Petch!” he muttered, wincing as he drew in a breath, eyes firmly closed. If there was any justice in the world, the ground would swallow him whole and have done with it. Overconfidence, his father’s derisive voice echoed in his mind, helpfully. No strider is ever going to pick you until you admit to yourself how utterly inept you are.

It was one of the few lessons, if you could call it that, which his father had ever tried to teach. There was wisdom in there, in some twisted way; you can’t improve until you admit to yourself that you need to. Of course, it wasn’t his father’s style to simply come out and say such things; it had to be wrapped up in an insult, and wrapped around a rock so it could be beaten into your skull.

He heard the sound of hooves; felt the vibrations in the ground; sensed the shadow even through his closed eyelids. He reluctantly peeled them open, and stared up at the colt, looming above him, head bowed low enough for his reins to brush against Zhol’s injured shoulder. The sensation was unpleasant, but the sentiment was not; he reached awkwardly across himself with his other arm, patting the colt’s muzzle gently. “Sorry friend,” he offered, heaving his reluctant bones and muscles into action until he was sitting, “It looks like you’re much better at this than I am.”

Zhol knew that the bow of the colt’s head was just to relieve the pressure of the bit and bridle, but he couldn’t help but see it as the colt nodding in agreement. He coughed out a breath of laughter, and shruggled to his feet, gingerly testing the mobility of the shoulder that had impacted the ground. Not broken, so far as he could tell; just bruised, to match his ego.

“Perhaps it would be safest,” he mused, taking hold of the colt’s reins, and grimacing up the road back towards the city, “If we stuck to walking for now.”

This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

There was something satisfying about the sound of the shovel scraping against the stone floor, and the way it sliced through the lichen and manure. It was an odd thing to take pleasure in, particularly when one’s shoulder grumbled in protest with every motion; but Zhol found solace in the strangest of places. In his youth, he had always helped care for the striders in any way he could; his father had always told him he wouldn’t earn a strider with niceness, but that hadn’t discouraged him.

It wasn’t about some subterfuge: it wasn’t about Zhol, or what anyone else thought. Every day of his life, they had stressed the importance of the bond between a Drykas and his strider; how their bond was almost family. Perhaps that was only supposed to be deeply personal, but Zhol had never seen it that way; never understood it that way. If a strider was like family to Zhol’s brother, by extension they became his family, too, just as much as his sister’s husband, or his cousin’s daughter were.

Perhaps that was wrong; perhaps that wasn’t the true Drykas way. That didn’t seem to matter now, all things considered. Wind Reach was his new pavillion; his new home; his new family. Each one of the beasts scattered around the almost empty stables was part of that as far as he was concerned, even if no one else thought so; and nothing done for family should be done grudgingly.

Another shovel of manure and lichen slid from the blade into the waiting barrow. The small mound Zhol had scraped into the corner was almost gone; he allowed himself a moment to pause, lean against the shovel’s handle, and mop the beads of sweat from his brow with a patch of sleeve far enough up that he was confident it was stained with only grass and dirt rather than anything less pleasant. At least he wasn’t cold, he mused to himself, chuckling at the sentiment.

”You shouldn’t be doing that.”

Zhol hadn’t noticed that he’d acquired an audience; nor had he picked up enough Nari in less than a year to understand what his observer had said. He did recognise Vart however; one of the Dek that the stables employed. Zhol still struggled a little with the subtleties of the Inarta’s caste structure, but even if he hadn’t already known that Vart was about as low on the scale as you could get, he probably would have been able to guess: all heart and brawn, but very little brain. Zhol actually liked that about him: around the Endal, Chiet, and and other Avora, Zhol was never quite sure who to be or how to act, but with Vart and the others, there was comfort in the simplicity. He could treat him like a regular human being and - assuming there was no one of higher status to glare at him disapprovingly for doing so - waste no extra thought worrying.

Mustering a smile was easy. ”I didn’t see you there,” Zhol greeted, hoping his language choice would remind Vart of Zhol’s comprehension struggles.

”You shouldn’t be doing that,” Vart repeated, thankfully taking the hint.

It took Zhol a few moments to comprehend his point. He gestured to the ground. ”This?” he indicated, tapping the floor with the tip of the shovel. Vart nodded. Zhol’s smile grew larger.

It was true, he supposed: there were others in the stables’ employ whose job it was to groom and muck out the horses; Zhol’s skills and experience were deemed worthy enough for a higher calling and higher status. He was supposed to train them, not care for them; what business did an Avora have getting his sleeves dirty with such a menial task?

”The spooked colt from earlier,” he explained, nodding towards the fresh stall across the stables where his new friend was making himself comfortable atop the freshly laid lichen. ”He behaved well for me today. The least I can do to show my gratitude is clean up after him.” Vart didn’t look any less confused. Zhol’s smile became a grin as he loaded up one last shovel, and emptied it into the barrow. ”Think of it as one of my strange, outsider training techniques, if you like.”

A twinge in his shoulder expressed his body’s relief at his task being complete. He gestured to the barrow, and shot Vart a look that was meant to convey humour but that clearly sailed well over the Dek’s head. “If it makes you feel better though,” he joked, ”You can go empty that barrow for me if you like.”

Vart acted without hesitation; Zhol’s mouth opened as if to correct the misunderstanding, but he forced himself to stop. It was all well and good him deviating from social norms for his own sake, but it wasn’t his place to judge or try and alter the way the Inarta ran their lives: he’d crossed that line a few too often already, and it was time he learned to assimilate better. Vart’s role in society was to serve, and from what Zhol had seen of the man around the stables, he was more than content to do so.

Still, this notion of instructing others to do work that Zhol could easily have done himself unsettled the pit of his stomach. He wondered if he’d ever grow used to that; and more importantly, he wondered if he would ever want to.

With a sigh, he propped the shovel up against the inside of the stall, and wiped his hands down the front of his shirt; not that it made much of a difference at this point, it was less a matter of removing dirt and merely moving it around from body part to body part. He reached through his collar, and kneaded at his injured shoulder; the wise choice would be to visit the infirmary he supposed, but much of Wind Reach was still an unnavigable labyrinth to him at this point, and he had been here too long - or perhaps simply was just too proud - to ask for directions. He’d stumble upon it eventually; the discomfort in the meantime would be his motivation to learn his way around a little better.

Casually, he meandered towards the colt; seeing his approach, the horse leaned forward, muzzle easily brought within arms reach. Zhol smiled as he ruffled the fur on the colt’s nose, and then smoothed it back into place. A thought struck him, and he turned: his eyes found Vart, not quite out of earshot yet.

”Does this horse have a name?” he called, loud enough for his words to linger briefly in the echoes of the stables.

Vart shrugged unhelpfully, and then continued on his course; Zhol frowned, and turned his attention back to the colt, leaning heavily against the gate of the stall. ”I can’t just keep calling you 'friend',” he mused, and for a moment, the way the colt met his gaze had him convinced it was listening. ”So what am I going to call you?”

This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Caela Dorin]

Grade Awarded Zhol Experience Skill XP Earned Horsemanship 1 Observation 2 Riding 1 Socialisation 1 Lores • Lore Earned • Calming a Spooked Horse • Horse Body Language: Fear • Horse Body Language: Excited Anticipation • Placing a Saddle on a Horse • Riding: Changing a Horse’s Direction • Novice Mistake: Encouraging a Horse to Go Faster than You Can Handle • Cleaning Out a Horse’s Stall • Menial Work Not Suitable for an Avora to Do • Vart: Dek Helper • Vart: Follows Instructions Without Hesitation Consequences : Sprained Shoulder: Swelling should prevail for the first 48 bells although it can be brought down using ice or another cold substance. A sling should be used for the first few days to promote healing but no more than that or else there'll be a risk of stiffness and reduced injury time. If the shoulder is not immobilised, is used extensively and/or no treatment is sought then healing time will be almost twice the normal period. Normal healing: 14 days Extended healing: 26 days Additional Comments An interesting little thread I must say but you did ask for feedback concerning how well it works as a job thread. A greater focus on the work aspects would help, plenty of detail too. Rather than simply saying that you did something go into greater detail, explain the hows and whys. Also remember that if you are a novice in a particular skill that you should show a certain level of ineptitude. Urging a horse to higher speeds when you can't handle it would cover that. If you're supposed to be emphasising a particular function of your job don't just give a brief description about the actions you're doing, go into greater detail to show the involvement in your work. Basically the short version of that spiel is go into detail and really hammer home that you are doing your job! Enjoyable thread all the same. I particularly enjoyed when Zhol fell off the horse because he was too overconfident and thought that a novice skill in riding would help him race the horse about the place. Please edit or delete your grade request and PM me if you have any questions or concerns about your grade. x