Cursed seed - Part II

by **Wikus** on October 10th, 2015, 9:00 pm

23rd-Winter-496
Mid-day

The sun’s strength offered some relief to the horde of migratory beings that endlessly walked the landscape. While the clouds above offered no remorse to whatever roamed below, some heat filtered through and managed to awaken even the coldest of hearts. The snow, however, was immune – not leaving the fields until spring itself came to defeat then. That was perhaps the worst of it all, the snows that once fallen never melted. This snow below feet, hooves and wheels wouldn’t leave in a long time. Of course, the Drykas were used to spending every winter amidst the whiteness, yet for the Diamond Clan it was almost magical. The white color, proudly shining on every Clan member’s attire, was now all around them to incite and inspire. This season belongs to the Diamond Clan.

And since it belonged to them, they were responsible of honoring such gift by instead proving their value to the rest of the Clans, to make sure they knew the Diamond Clan sat atop above others – for nothing could ever face them. Wikus thought so, at least, for there was clearly pride whenever he dressed the white clothes. While the other Clans had perfectly good functions, the Diamond was always excelling at what mattered most, that being combat and stealth. No cook would ever be more famous than a champion; no hunter would every reign above a king. Perhaps the Emerald Clan could be considered the closest thing to a match, yet still being far underpowered to the greatness of the Diamond. For, of course, Wikus is in the Diamond Clan.

He may be a cattleman for the moment, and other Diamond Clan members were perhaps cooks or caravan drivers, yet fallen the afternoon they would dispose of said temporary tasks to instead become what they always were: formidable warriors who would prove their worth by claiming the biggest beasts they could track. Winter was always a tough season, of course, yet it was up to them to demonstrate why the Diamond Clan was held in such high regard. Fighting the cold and fighting the snow in order to claim the biggest head they could find. Perhaps they trained more to fight men instead of animals, yet it was in winter when they instead used the training and skills learned throughout the year against pray – not only to prove what they have learned and use it as training, but also to demonstrate their overall capability to deal with any situation. As the snow fell, it could only mean that today the first hunt would begin.

But of course, there was time for that. The day was still beginning, despite its withered aspect as sunlight did not quite greet the eyes. Now, it was time to crack the whip, again and again, to break the cattle’s procrastination and inspire some urge to follow the rest of the caravan, which moved slowly a few hundred feet away. There was always a need to keep direct contact between the cattle and the caravan – predators were always stalking. Wikus took care of only six cows, which were easily maneuvered around chunks of tall glass or hills that would break the constant eye contact that was to be kept between the two groups. The cows themselves avoided most of the dangers, and a few cracks of a whip in the right direction could make them steer from undesirable zones. The goats were not his responsibility – the different animal breeds were always scattered to make sure there was no rivalry for the grazing, or more animals than a human or canine could handle.

A rider separated itself from the caravan to instead ride towards the cattleman, the hooves of his horse catching Wikus’ attention as he approached to meet him. Halting before him, both men exchanged water-skins. Inside stood a broth, hot and poorly salted, that provided some heat in one’s stomach and various nutrients that aided in the sojourn ahead. These broths were usually salt-less, as salt dehydrates the body and therefore weakens it. Strength was more important than taste, at least in this particular case. Once the exchange was done, and the cattleman took a long sip from his new water-skin in order to taste the content, the meeting was over and both returned to their designated tasks. There weren’t any words exchanged between man and man, only perhaps the ones directed from the rider to his horse. Most of the times, anything directed towards the cattleman was never replied, something his family members were already aware of and simply did not try to change. There was nothing to be said anyway. Once he departed, the cattleman resumed his lonesome task.

The caravan wouldn’t stop until the camp was to be set again. There was no time to be wasted sitting in a place without the shelter provided by the pavilion. Instead, everything that needed to be done was done by individuals whom separated themselves from the convoy and performed whatever was needed. Some scouted ahead on horseback, others seek resources on foot, and some stayed behind to start a fire and cook the broth every member deserved in this cold day. The short days didn’t allowed anything nor anyone to slow down the group, for night fell quickly and every must be ready when the time to settle for the day came. A good spot, a good environment, a water source… There was a lot of requirements to be filled before one could settle for a location in which to house the members of his family. Wikus wasn’t the Ankal, not yet, but he could imagine the planning one must do before settling for a location. Nobody would forgive him if something happened to the members that relied on him.

Meanwhile, as now he was only a cattleman instead of an Ankal, those issues did not stay in his mind for long. Now, it was moment to watch the cows and follow meekly the path the Ankal decided to follow. Thankfully, he and the Ankal had stablished a good relationship lately, once the worth of the current cattleman was discovered. Between them stood a relationship of respect, of care and perhaps even of love. The Ankal saw a promising young man whom never wasted a second lingering about and instead worked every chime he had, a son he wished it was his yet wasn’t, but was still treated as if it was. On the other side, Wikus approached him with care yet with utmost respect, perhaps influenced by the Ankal to indeed see a fatherly figure he had lacked in his younger years. Of course, a father is not found once time passes, but instead it’s only lost. Never would he be viewed through his eyes like a father instead of the mentor of sorts he really was.

Whatever the relationship between them was, it was clearly good. Lately, the Ankal had begun teaching him webbing daily in order to prepare a successor. While his sons were also taught, Wikus was too amongst them – for he was married to his daughter, his own flesh and blood. Hunting trips were often organized and ordered to follow Wikus’ lead, impossible tasks were placed in his hands in order to continue testing the youth whom never seemed to falter. But the cost of all that success and promise was far too expensive – leaving behind joy and peace to instead completely dedicate oneself to continuous and never-ending work in order to improve and strive, which eventually becomes too much to even bother looking at someone else. He barely shared a word with anyone as now if felt like a waste of breath instead of a socialization attempt, he didn’t join it’s family in the night to dance and narrate tales as he was instead sleeping and getting ready for tomorrow. Unlike his early childhood, the notion of belief in any Gods had banished, Zulrav being nothing more than a tale as never had he answered to anyone in his family. Soon, even the animals lost their magnificence and became nothing more but that, animals to be used and not loved. Only his Strider stood by his side, still, even when almost no attention was given to him.

The Strider every Drykas adores and pampers was nothing more than a horse, even having lost its name in his mind. Wikus once called him Siege, yet now rarely addressed him with that name. Why waste a word to speak to an animal when instead he could use that word to address a Drykas? Why pamper an animal when instead one could work hard to earn the next windmark? Why bother making friends when there was fame to be gained, and a legacy to be built? Why even bother getting to know one’s wife when there was a child to be born? It was inhuman the effort he put into overthrowing the cursed legacy left by the two weaklings that spawned him, and that very effort was the one to isolate him from his people. Sixteen winters he had on his back and he had achieved several windmarks that made him stand apart from the rest, a reward worth any sacrifices that stood in its way. Still, he was convinced that once his child was born, everything would forever change, that the constant effort would somewhat hinder to instead lend some of his time to finding another source of happiness, perhaps in his wife or his heir, perhaps in his horse or in his people in general. Whatever that wasn’t the flowers that, for now, were the best company one could hope for.

Performing a snake-killer crack with the whip, a motion that sent the whole whip against the snowy ground ahead to deliver a harsh and loud crack, he’d urge the cattle to advance the hundred feet they walked before once again returning to grazing just like before. The winds were thankfully gone yet surely they’d return as quickly as the sun began to move above the clouds that hid its location. Taking a sip of the still hot broth that laid in his water-skin, and with the insipid heat it provided, he’d once again find the motivation to follow the endless journey ahead that, thankfully, was eased by the sight of the Iris flower that stood on his belt. He had to only look down in order to find strength and motivation to keep on going. After all, that flower had managed to survive where its sisters failed, and she alone had managed to leave a legacy that he now honored.

by **Wikus** on October 12th, 2015, 10:48 am

Early-Afternoon

They were approaching. They were but a shadow in the distance a bell ago, but now they had gained silhouettes and free-flowing forms that, as the distance shortened, slowly began to differentiate each of the components. Wikus tracked they progress whenever he didn’t correct the cattle’s direction, and every chime that went by he’d peer towards the horizon. It was hard to believe the day had actually come, but it was certainly a day he had been waiting for, especially since this year he’d be able to make a good amount of fame. The caravans in the distance were getting close, tracing a diagonal to intercept the remaining one. The group was apparently already complete – once they reached theirs, the encampment process would begin before the hunt was started.

That’s right. The Diamond Hunt was how Wikus denominated the event that repeated itself every winter whenever the pavilions involved reunited. Whether this term, or tradition, was common for the Clan, it was unknown to him. What he did knew is that it happened every year, when certain families gathered together in winter for seven nights before splitting up once again. The number of families had increased the last years, last year being five the pavilions that united themselves for feasting and hunting, the latter being the main reason. The Clans were somewhat hermetic as to traditions, each having their own customs and own praise system. The Diamond Clan prided itself of being the Clan of the true warriors – of those who fought and died, yet took the largest amount of enemies out before that. That very same message was somewhat imposed throughout the life of those born in this Clan, always pushing the young to their limits in order to be recognized by the Elders. Wikus had no intention of falling behind.

They converged after roughly a bell. As the distance waned, the trips on horse-back increased and loud chatter began ringing through the otherwise silent nothingness. Greets and laughs echoed before the caravan completely froze in the middle of the nothingness. Everyone froze, greeting and meeting each other, some not having been in contact while others haven spoken recently, relatives giggling as they admire their siblings and praise their children… Wikus wasn’t greeted by anyone. The cattleman froze his pressure on the animals and instead awaited, flapping his whip without cracking it, instead using the motion to find a rhythm in which he could safe-guard himself by providing a constant flow of the whip’s cracker – the fine segment at the end of the weapon – and with such be able to deliver a hit whenever and wherever he desired. The whip itself was a 12 footer, shot loaded beneath the leather with a small amount of steel that served as both handle and effectively allowed for said handle to serve as a weapon on its own. The longer the whip, the harder it was to keep it under control. Using this one offered him an extra challenge, which was welcome since complicated was often good. That is a lesson Wikus applied on everything he did – if you’re doing something and it looks simple, then you’re doing it wrong.

Spinning around his arm up in the air, and bringing it down towards hip-level only to regain distance one again, the whip itself flowed perfectly under such simplistic movement. A whip does not simply crack when waved around, or abruptly retrieved. It would crack at the latter, yet it would return to possible punish the reckless wielder’s features when not used properly. What was hard to accept is that using a whip required the used of lines, and straight motions that didn’t curve nor bend when they were performed. Generally, the safest way to crack a whip with both power and safety for the wielder was to draw either a vertical or horizontal like with the hand holding the whip. It was that simple. But since no pray like to stay still before being killed, the complications rose. Walking was easy, but in motion the whip turns highly unstable unless a gentle and unshaking pace was assumed. Changing the direction of the whip’s flail was harder depending on its length, so one always needed to choose between maneuverability or distance between him and the target. The heat of battle was also a factor – whom could bother to be precise when death itself was about to claim you? Anyone would panic, or perhaps only those whom feared it. This weapon was not a sword, easy to swing around and cause damage, nor a bow which relied on huge distance between the hunter and the hunted. This was an instrument to cause pain, to cripple, and to kill without allowing anything nor anyone to stop the killer, while the killer admired its work closely. Wikus craved to one day prove the worth of a whip in the hands of a master – hopefully, him being the one to master it.

Swinging the whip around, changing his direction to roll out the whip wherever he saw fit, the cracks would be easily delivered if he applied some harshness and power in the motion. A crack of a whip was also something uniquely terrifying to any animal. With just a crack, he could inspire fear in any creature the whip’s end approached, the cattle for example immediately moving away, the distance depending on the strength and volume of the crack. In these plains, a strong and harsh crack would gain some reverb, which surely escalated its fear on the animals. Rarely a whip was used to strike, yet the cracker that stood at the end would make sure that whatever’s stricken would be mentally scarred as much as physically. That fine thread of leather could easily become a knife that slashed or even thrusted through an opponent, certainly not compared to the blade of an actual knife, yet instead of depth it would compensate in pain. Never had he used his whip against a human, but there wouldn’t be much difference between them and the animals when the cracks started exploding on their flesh. Furthermore, the humans had the innate ability to think on their own, which also increased their psychological fear towards being hurt. The skill of being able to imagine the pain caused by such weapon was their own curse. Thankfully, whips were rarely used as weapons, so he was somewhat safe from that worry.

The dancing of the whip halted, as a horseman approached swiftly. Yet this time, it wasn’t a broth-boy to deliver him a new water-ski. It was Wiche, one of the pavilion and perhaps the second most promising warrior in that household. Beside him, of course. While they didn’t quite communicate nor socialize between them, there was a tense relationships between the two, proper of unspoken rivalry that was as harsh and unforgiving as the winter itself. They were somewhat alike, both being quiet and aloof from the rest, yet Wiche had the disadvantage of having actual relatives in the pavilion, which dragged him away from the glory achieved when free of burdens or unspoken responsibilities that comes along with family. Wikus took the lead and maintained a distance from Wiche in terms of fame, for while the other sat through the long nights listening to tales and stories, learning and reading, Wikus gave it all away to keep improving the skillset that would take him to the very top. Soon, whenever his child was born, he’d take huge lead it’d be almost impossible for his rival to reach. Frowning as usual, Wiche didn’t even halt his Strider as he simply gave the expected news: it was time to camp. And just like that, he left.

Delivering a harsh crack up in the sky, followed by a loud cry directed to the cattle, Wikus began directing the small herd towards the caravan as quickly as he could. Time was of the essence, now more than ever, for besides setting up the encampment, there was a lot of preparation to be done before the hunt could begin. When he arrived in the vast conglomeration of horses, people, and wagons alike, the task of watching the cattle was left on to somebody else. He didn’t stay for conversations nor useless greetings, he didn’t even stay to meet the women whom gazed at him, some giggling and others simply offering a smile in exchange of his attention. There were very few methods to see the reflection of his features, most of those revolving the use of water, yet he wasn’t quite convinced of his physical attractiveness. Attractive or not, women liked fame more than anything. Bearing the children of an attractive shyke-cleaner was nothing compared to giving birth to the heirs of a famed Ankal whom lacked grace in his features, nor to sharing the name of an Elder whom could barely differentiate his face from that of an pig. Whenever his son was delivered, he’d finally stop and catch up on everything he had missed these years, be it women, love, animals, laughs, tales, stories, or even happiness. But this time, the promise would not be postponed until his next achievements. Not one more time.

Some were eager to help, the wagons closing in and being quickly unloaded. Shoves were handed out to everyone, including Wikus, whom had claimed one as his own before it all. Walking about, he’d survey the ground’s surface with his feet. Setting up a pavilion required more than just a pretty landscape – it was a large structure filled with even more structures, with furniture and stoves that all required a perfectly leveled ground. Leaving the task to others would be cause for disaster: only he was prepared to do this. Not because he was the most skilled in this task, but before he only trusted his own hands with these kind of important matters. This day was also somewhat special, as it wouldn’t be only a single pavilion erected in the wilderness. There would be six, as one family had also decided to take part of the small competition. Six pavilions must be raised in a perfectly plain ground, all of them very close to each other as there was to be a feast afterwards. Perhaps the others had no issue with these kind of preparations, yet for a man that doesn’t quite enjoy said celebrations, it was only extra work that didn’t earn him anything.

Finally, after walking a hundred feet around the initial spot, he gave a signal. The terrain was somewhat able to hold a pavilion, and while some imperfections were always present, it could even be managed for all the pavilions to be distributed around a central point, in which he imagined a bonfire would be erected. One of the Ankals approached to survey the zone picked by the family, and soon he gave the authorization. Instantly, everyone got to work as if being exact copies of the workers that stood beside them.

Landscaping in winter was almost mandatory. It wasn’t a matter of looks as much as it was of survival: snow was simply not welcome wherever a tent raised. Using the shovels, each of the group would begin scraping it outwards from the center point, that being the ‘heart’ of the very encampment as much as the Elder’s encampment was the heart of Endrykas. The snow was a must to be eliminated, as otherwise once the tarps and rugs sat on top, it would either melt to reveal an uneven terrain, or melt and mix with the dirt to create mud, which was even worse. Also, bugs and other unwanted creatures would be spooked away from the pavilion. Every few steps, a new member joined the circle that kept getting away from the center and expanding outward, efficiently shoving away the snow until the terrain was left brown and true to its real aspect. Some holes and a few stones stood in some points, which were to be loft and disposed of in the case of the latter, of filled with soiled and thoroughly compressed in the first scenario.

Quickly leaving the clear terrain, instead the man would approach the nearest tall grass in order to rip apart some of it in order to use it as fuel for a fire he had to start. In winter, it was seemingly impossible to find proper tinder, as everything was bound to be wet or too cold to burn properly. This was enhanced by the Sea of Grass’ lack of frequent forests, which only left herbs and grass to be used. Thankfully, there was wood always accumulated for said season, as the survival of the entire camp depended on it. Someone had already brought it to the heart of the encampment, which was one less task he had to do alone.

Flailing the grass around in order to shake the remains of snow or water-drops, Wikus would place it on the side of a wooden log that liedon the ground, and using another as a pressing tool, he’d begin to rub log and log together as the grass stood between them, squashing the grass and providing friction that would both take away any dampness and would also serve as a small heating effect which would dry out the grass. After a couple of minutes, the unusable grass had become tinder. Flint and steel were provided by a helper, whom was used to the routine, and after a few tries, the grass was already smoking. Adding wood, small first and big ones later, a small fire was kindled and ready to signal that, on this very spot, a bigger fire would rise this evening for the whole sky to witness. This was the night in which the heavens would scream the name of the Diamond that shined a hundred times brighter than any other of the Clans. And also, this was the night when Wikus himself would be finally worth of the destiny he craved.

by **Wikus** on October 13th, 2015, 8:55 am

With the fire set, and the encampment slowly taking form as the caravans unloaded and placed everything in its right place, the warriors whom where part of the of tonight’s competition were split from the group. There weren’t many requirements to join: be a Drykas of the Diamond Clan, and not be afraid of death. It was pretty basic, true, yet the second requirement was perhaps the one to hold back most of the interested. This wasn’t a simple hunting game where the objective was to simply kill the pray and claim its fur. That was for the Emerald Clan to do. It couldn’t be emphasized enough the big traditions that somewhat distinguished each of the Clans, each pavilion within having their own particular set of traditions that entirely depend on the Ankal. It was up to him to change everything, if he wished so, yet that would certainly cause unease and hatred – and possibly earn him a stab in the back from the most conservative of members. It happened, sometimes.

Instead, the wagons were loaded with a very peculiar set of items that were entirely dedicated to those whom were to prove their worth this night. Four wagons total dragged by horses left the encampment heading east, while every warrior mounted their Striders and followed in the same direction. Wikus wasn’t quite sure of where exactly they were going, but he had a faint idea. The geysers were lost paradises in winter, not only for the warmth and pureness of the waters, but also for the health benefits the Drykas believed they provided. It is said that those whom bathed in its hot waters gain the strength of the Gods themselves in their flesh, a tale surely made for kids as Wikus remembers men dying even with those sacred skins. Mounted on Siege, the Strider whose love he didn’t quite return, he followed from behind. He wondered, sometime, why the horse stuck around him. Wikus didn’t have much interest in mounted combat, and riding was somewhat detestable if not in a hurry. But still, the Strider kept around, a fact that somewhat comforted Wikus as, if the horse were to leave him, his accomplishments would be worth less than the strider’s shyke. There was a constant worry to provide for the horse just enough, just the bare minimum for the bond to still exist.

It took them a while to reach the destination, indeed being a single geyser that stood in an open field plagued with rocks of all sizes, yet all round and smooth to the touch. The snow had waned or was extinct in said field, for the geyser’s waters sprinkled everything thoroughly, the cold wind aiding in spreading its dampness all around. Wikus had reasonable doubt that some of that soil and rocks were lightly frozen and covered in a thin layer of ice, especially those further away from the jet of the water. Steam flowed through the air above the field, dense and well visible from miles away. He didn’t quite notice the smoke from the distance, perhaps needing some extra training in observation, as he was instead quite busy inspecting the group of riders that traveled along. It was a large coalition. It was certain Wiche was somewhere amongst them, along with other horsemen from Wikus’ pavilion, yet it was impossible to point down as the crowd was far too big to inspect carefully, even less recognize anyone from the looks of their back. Surprisingly, they didn’t stop near the geyser. Instead, the leader of the group ventured through a small opening amidst the tall grass that surrounded the open field, revealing the grass’ wall function as instead a field double the size of the first opened before them, yet instead of geysers a dozen of small hot-springs greeted the cold travelers. This was bound to be fun.

Like madmen, all dismounted and began unclothing carelessly, eager to find the pool that would bathe them in heat. There was no denying that those whom wore armor, like Wikus, found it far more frustrating to fiddle around and about with the multiple laces that held it pressed against his inner clothing, being almost unbearable to see how the rest all entered the waters with a giggle while they felt the wind’s effect increased as layers and leather parts exposed the inner clothing. With every part gone, the cold increased, yet the fingers worked eagerly, for if one lingered about for too long, even they would feel the effect of the cold. Once it was all thrown on the ground, the clothes came off easily and he too could join in the heat of the springs. The men had dispersed throughout the different springs, mostly choosing them for the members that sat inside rather than the comfort they found in the waters – even if the water level was lower and exposed their bare flesh to the freezing wind, the fact that the men they knew or that belonged in their pavilion were there was enough to keep them from moving. Wikus didn’t have that problem.

The first spring was good to regain some heat, which would ease the somewhat numb members of Wikus’ body, yet it was clear the water level was not enough. He had been gaining height extremely fast lately, standing at 6’3 as of now, and the water level barely covered his nipples. The others seemed pleased, even if some of them were even taller than him. He knew nobody of them, so whenever he felt confident enough to leave the water, he searched for a deeper pool. A few feet away stood an empty pool, which was clearly far too hot for anyone sane to enter: the water steamed thoroughly, far more than the rest. Moving on, a somewhat deep pool stood next, Wiche was washing his hair inside which immediately continued the search for greener grass. Figuratively. Opposing the latter, a fairly small spring emerged with two males and one female laconically relaxing inside, but with enough space to fit his own cold self. They weren’t familiar faces, probably warriors he would have never met or see if he didn’t happen to join them inside. They looked up at the stranger, perhaps for the fact that he was a newcomer instead of an outcast, and quickly returned to their mindless rest. It was somewhat hard to fit the legs in the underwater forest of limbs that lied beneath, but after a few bumps he managed to find a position he somewhat enjoyed.

Now began the calmest moment of the whole day. The horses would be taken care by the assistants that didn’t join the warriors, instead being there to provide for everything that would be necessary before the hunt began. Some were slaves, others were Drykas. Instead, they bathed separately, as if prohibited from joining the hunters directly. In a way, they were. The warriors whom rested, most of them silent with a few exceptions, were there to make peace with themselves, to calm the senses and instead refine the lull needed to perform adequately in battle. He couldn’t know what it meant for the others, but for himself it meant leaving the thoughts and worries aside, leaving the past and future locked in a chest, letting the life take its course however it saw fit. Some could die, maybe all of them, or perhaps only him. If one didn’t accept that, if he tried to fight it, it would only be his own damnation. While the fear of death was something natural, setting one’s sight down on that moment would only cause his feet to trip, and send him head first into a ditch. While they meditated, they made sure to very thoroughly wash themselves, helping each other getting rid of any smell that might linger about whenever they headed towards battle.

These kinds of moments were somewhat bizarre to Wikus, used to the frenzy and haste of constant work, for sitting about doing nothing was a sin he wasn’t willing to commit. But now, this was his work. A finger poked him, forcing him to open his eyes almost startled. The man beside him, the physically thick man with an extremely long mane and a somewhat impressive moustache being the responsible. Taking some of the water in a cup formed with his hands, he’d lay it on his back when he turned, washing his back with a circular motion. As he did so, he felt two smooth hands on his own back, the male behind him taking the chance to clean Wikus’ back while he was turned. The male behind him was very thin compared to the colossus that stood in front, although he presented many more windmarks engraved in his flesh. He applied some pressure on his back, using the finger tips to gently press on the skin to somewhat bring comfort on Wikus’ back, something he’d attempt to mimic on the colossus as well. It worked, as the gigantic man exhaled with a mixture of a moan and a bray. Wikus halted, surprised, but quickly found the meaning funny as the female that washed the thin man behind him started laughing. It was contagious, indeed, as the four began laughing as they thoroughly washed and massaged each other.

It all came to an end fairly quickly. A shout from afar signaled the end of the bathing time and a beginning to the physical preparations. The warriors left the springs and instead of approaching their horses, they moved away from them. Back again on the snow, a small wait followed before one of the wagons made his way through the grass. The men had nearly lost their patience, such being null when waiting on the snow with bare feet as the wind punished the bare flesh. As soon as it appeared, two women quickly began tossing stacks of thick blankets, which were swiftly distributed amongst the warriors. The second wagon made his way through, the third following after, yet the fourth didn’t come. The unloading began, the ones responsible for handling the material being washed already and well covered with their own blankets, yet they had boots which was pretty unfair. The whole pack of warriors formed a horizontal line that stretched almost across the whole width of the field, moment in which Wikus would inspect the length to finally learn the number of participants this year. While he couldn’t quite count, not because he lacked the brains but because the maximum number he knew was thirty, and the warrior were far greater than that number. He couldn’t even add, nor write to aid himself with the task. Surely, Wiche could.

Each of the twelve assistants, which were the ones to tend to the warriors as the rest took care of the horses, extracted a circular leather pad from one of the wagons. The twelve began calling forth the first of the line, which was unfortunately quite far from Wikus’ position. The assistants retrieved large containers, enormous buckets of wood from the wagons and began bathing the warriors – with wood ash. Ash, had found Wikus, is extraordinary. Not only can one use it to hide his smell, but it can also serve as isolation from the sun or the cold. That applied for both humans and plants, as a layer of ash on top of a flower could preserve it from the cold winter. It was an amazing material he had become prone to use, as it was always of help. In this case, it was used to coat the warriors’ body odor even if they were bathed. It would also serve to isolate from the cold wind, and serve as a small coat of protection in case any of the warriors were wounded – the ash took care of the infection if it entered an open wound at the cost of an unpleasant burn. But it took a long time to coat a warrior with ash, and the line was long enough to once again bring some frustration. Staying still in the cold with only a blanket was intolerable by most, whom began either doing exercise or talking amongst themselves. Some warriors began training some unarmed combat nearby, which somewhat inspired the rest to watch or start their own spars.

Next part -->

by **Ssezzkero** on October 15th, 2015, 1:34 am

Skills:

Lores:

Flashback Cursed seed - Part II