8th Bell - 14th Day of Winter, 516AV - Endrykas
Strange as it seemed, Konrad had lost his distaste for rising so early in the day. At least, it seemed early to him. The Drykas were a people used to rising not with Syna, but before her. So much needed to be attended when all a man had, ate or sold needed to be gained from his own labors. By the time the Sunberthian's eyes creaked open, he could see busy feet tramping around outside his tent, hooves trotting here and there, a boisterous babble above them as the city awoke.
He grunted that morning and rubbed his face. That was not his life. Most days he woke when the drink or the smoke wore off, around midday, sometimes later. Then he'd shrug on his clothes and strap his steel to himself and go out to find a job. In Kenash it was a little more... structured, but the basic principle applied.
Now things had changed again, and the reason why punched him in the guts a few ticks after waiting.
Something was alive and angry in his stomach, even after nigh-on two-score days of healing. Konrad feared, in his private moments, that it would never go away. He'd suffered pain before, it was a mere byproduct of his profession, but this... it was inside him, always. After every meal, every exertion, every few bells of sleep, it came to him. Sometimes not even then; it just popped by unannounced, hard and fierce enough to double him over, and then left him there, without pain and often without dignity.
He'd happily take double in pain in his leg and back and shoulder, if only this one would just sod off and leave him be.
Quit you're whining and make the damn tea.
Konrad - or, rather, "Hansel" - straightened up from a crouch as he left the tent. Stiff limbs and knotted muscles groaned in protest but were silenced as Syna smacked him around the face, blinding his eyes into shutting. Gods, and this was supposed to be Winter? A few days ago, that cold night when he'd practiced his wyrd, that had been Winter, and he'd since learned it was a solitary exception.
Now Winter was heat and humidity, wildfires across the grass and lightning splitting the distant sky every night. Water holes dried up. Rivers shrunk. Herds dead from starvation and predators mad from hunger, willing to assault Drykas in desperation.
It was strange. Unnatural. Unholy, many said, but for Konrad, it was simpler: he was simply glad it was warmer for the sake of his wounds. He knew how bad wounds could get, how slow they could heal, in the bitter cold.
Instead, he was able to slowly, carefully, but somewhat painlessly shuffle over to the campfire and find a pot of water. He laid it on the griddle across the flames and waited on his knees until the water bubbled and boiled. Then he rummaged through his bag until he found the thin stems, toothed leaves and red flowers of the Tolm he'd purchased.
Nahrar, the healer, had been right in his suggestions. It helped. Konrad only hoped it would not have to help forever.
It was a slow process, though. It was his ritual, every morning and sometimes the evening, when the pain was too much. He'd learned it took fifteen, maybe twenty times for the herbs to sink into the water properly, make a good thick tea for drinking. Nahrar had told him as much, but Konrad had tried to rush it the first time.
A steaming cup of hot water had been his reward, instead of a pain-soothing tea. He wouldn't be hasty again.
He watched the pavilion around him move and work and live. The Drykas and walahks were busy. Errands, chores, jobs, duties, everyone had to do something. Even Konrad had his duties, here and there, when Jonas found something even a half-crippled thug like him could accomplish.
There were a pair humans, washing clothes and scrubbing out stains. A little ways from them, a skinny man and a beefy woman - more than friends, Konrad would wager - butchered a sheep, skinning and gutting in unison, wasting nothing. An old Drykas made arrows... and younger one darned breeches... everyone had something to do.
Konrad frowned. He couldn't see Jonas. Or his unofficial bodyguards, Hulking and More Hulking. He knew they had names but, well, really: what did they matter, as long as their function was so obvious?
He shuffled on his knees and felt that absence again. Not just of purpose or vitality, or even gold in his purse, but the lack of a weight at the small of his back. He still wore his harness every day, laden with weapons, but the kukri sheath had been empty for dozens of days. He'd left it buried in the neck of the horse Three Eyes had been riding. The Drykas with Jonas had found him, his old dagger, his kopis still in its sheath, but his kukri? They'd let that alone, for whatever reason. Same reason his own horse had vanished, too, he supposed.
Couldn't wait forever, just because they found some half-dead walahk in the grass.
He wanted it back, but that was unlikely to happen. Only a Webber would be able to find the spot he'd been found, and even then scavengers would have torn apart the horse, spread the blade elsewhere... so sod it, that was that. It had been riding his body for twenty years but now, well, times change.
Time to get a new one.
"'ey, easy wiv' that!"
Konrad blinked and cursed himself savagely under his breath, hurriedly moving the pot off the griddle-
-and cursing even louder as he forgot to cover his damn hands first. He wrapped them in a cloth and took the bubbling-over concoction away from the flames, waiting for the froth to subside, and perhaps the attention...
"Gotta keep an eye on it, mate."
No such luck. He looked up and there was a friendly grin bearing down on him. One of the walahks... gods, he was even thinking in bloody Pavi, now. Some human or another, seeking fellowship with another of his kind in a strange place. Konrad nodded and looked down at the pot.
"So... what's it for?"
Konrad's teeth ground. Audibly.
"Pain."
"Oh? What kind?" Clearly Konrad all but baring his teeth hadn't worked. Still wanted to be friends. "Smells like... Tolm, right? I've heard that's good for-"
"Too early for me to be petchin' polite, boy, so keep walkin'. I wanna chat with youse, I'll open my mouth in yer direction. Youse don't need to do the same t'me."
He looked up and green eyes burned like molten jade under the brim of his hat. Konrad was good at The Look. He'd made a career of it, back in Sunberth. Well, that and his ruthlessness and skill with sharp steel. But often, just The Look was enough to get people into line. By the paling of his skin and the quick dance his throat-ball did, the younger man seemed to get the message.
"I... er... I-I'll leave you to it, ah, then..."
He nodded. So did Konrad. Then he petched off, thank the gods.
Konrad looked down and saw the shimmering water had become placid, but stained. A thick scum of boiled-to-debris Tolm was slick and filthy on the top, and tried to be delicate as he poured the tea into a cup... careful... don't let too much of the herb into the cup... then put the rest to one side. That'd be good for tonight, if he had anymore trouble.
He blew on the steaming cup and tasted it. Bitter as buggery but cool enough to drink. He screwed his eyes shut and fought the urge to vomit as he tipped the cup up and up and-
Ah... it felt better. He didn't know how much of his relief was real and how much was his mind telling him it was real, but either way, he felt that tangled nest of barbed wire in his stomach melt away after a few chimes. He swilled the dregs and knocked them back like a shot of 'shine, taking the speck of herbs with it, swallowing it all down.
Syna was high already. Soon the city would move again, he was sure. But he spied the low, dark smudges on the far horizon. A finger-width then, but Konrad knew wind and time would bring them closer, and they would mass over Endrykas like a death shroud.
Storm coming, he thought, placing the cup with the herbal tea and feeling a little better. Best to get things done quickly.
A few chimes later he was limping out of the pavilion's area, a short, important list repeating in his head.
He grunted that morning and rubbed his face. That was not his life. Most days he woke when the drink or the smoke wore off, around midday, sometimes later. Then he'd shrug on his clothes and strap his steel to himself and go out to find a job. In Kenash it was a little more... structured, but the basic principle applied.
Now things had changed again, and the reason why punched him in the guts a few ticks after waiting.
Something was alive and angry in his stomach, even after nigh-on two-score days of healing. Konrad feared, in his private moments, that it would never go away. He'd suffered pain before, it was a mere byproduct of his profession, but this... it was inside him, always. After every meal, every exertion, every few bells of sleep, it came to him. Sometimes not even then; it just popped by unannounced, hard and fierce enough to double him over, and then left him there, without pain and often without dignity.
He'd happily take double in pain in his leg and back and shoulder, if only this one would just sod off and leave him be.
Quit you're whining and make the damn tea.
Konrad - or, rather, "Hansel" - straightened up from a crouch as he left the tent. Stiff limbs and knotted muscles groaned in protest but were silenced as Syna smacked him around the face, blinding his eyes into shutting. Gods, and this was supposed to be Winter? A few days ago, that cold night when he'd practiced his wyrd, that had been Winter, and he'd since learned it was a solitary exception.
Now Winter was heat and humidity, wildfires across the grass and lightning splitting the distant sky every night. Water holes dried up. Rivers shrunk. Herds dead from starvation and predators mad from hunger, willing to assault Drykas in desperation.
It was strange. Unnatural. Unholy, many said, but for Konrad, it was simpler: he was simply glad it was warmer for the sake of his wounds. He knew how bad wounds could get, how slow they could heal, in the bitter cold.
Instead, he was able to slowly, carefully, but somewhat painlessly shuffle over to the campfire and find a pot of water. He laid it on the griddle across the flames and waited on his knees until the water bubbled and boiled. Then he rummaged through his bag until he found the thin stems, toothed leaves and red flowers of the Tolm he'd purchased.
Nahrar, the healer, had been right in his suggestions. It helped. Konrad only hoped it would not have to help forever.
It was a slow process, though. It was his ritual, every morning and sometimes the evening, when the pain was too much. He'd learned it took fifteen, maybe twenty times for the herbs to sink into the water properly, make a good thick tea for drinking. Nahrar had told him as much, but Konrad had tried to rush it the first time.
A steaming cup of hot water had been his reward, instead of a pain-soothing tea. He wouldn't be hasty again.
He watched the pavilion around him move and work and live. The Drykas and walahks were busy. Errands, chores, jobs, duties, everyone had to do something. Even Konrad had his duties, here and there, when Jonas found something even a half-crippled thug like him could accomplish.
There were a pair humans, washing clothes and scrubbing out stains. A little ways from them, a skinny man and a beefy woman - more than friends, Konrad would wager - butchered a sheep, skinning and gutting in unison, wasting nothing. An old Drykas made arrows... and younger one darned breeches... everyone had something to do.
Konrad frowned. He couldn't see Jonas. Or his unofficial bodyguards, Hulking and More Hulking. He knew they had names but, well, really: what did they matter, as long as their function was so obvious?
He shuffled on his knees and felt that absence again. Not just of purpose or vitality, or even gold in his purse, but the lack of a weight at the small of his back. He still wore his harness every day, laden with weapons, but the kukri sheath had been empty for dozens of days. He'd left it buried in the neck of the horse Three Eyes had been riding. The Drykas with Jonas had found him, his old dagger, his kopis still in its sheath, but his kukri? They'd let that alone, for whatever reason. Same reason his own horse had vanished, too, he supposed.
Couldn't wait forever, just because they found some half-dead walahk in the grass.
He wanted it back, but that was unlikely to happen. Only a Webber would be able to find the spot he'd been found, and even then scavengers would have torn apart the horse, spread the blade elsewhere... so sod it, that was that. It had been riding his body for twenty years but now, well, times change.
Time to get a new one.
"'ey, easy wiv' that!"
Konrad blinked and cursed himself savagely under his breath, hurriedly moving the pot off the griddle-
-and cursing even louder as he forgot to cover his damn hands first. He wrapped them in a cloth and took the bubbling-over concoction away from the flames, waiting for the froth to subside, and perhaps the attention...
"Gotta keep an eye on it, mate."
No such luck. He looked up and there was a friendly grin bearing down on him. One of the walahks... gods, he was even thinking in bloody Pavi, now. Some human or another, seeking fellowship with another of his kind in a strange place. Konrad nodded and looked down at the pot.
"So... what's it for?"
Konrad's teeth ground. Audibly.
"Pain."
"Oh? What kind?" Clearly Konrad all but baring his teeth hadn't worked. Still wanted to be friends. "Smells like... Tolm, right? I've heard that's good for-"
"Too early for me to be petchin' polite, boy, so keep walkin'. I wanna chat with youse, I'll open my mouth in yer direction. Youse don't need to do the same t'me."
He looked up and green eyes burned like molten jade under the brim of his hat. Konrad was good at The Look. He'd made a career of it, back in Sunberth. Well, that and his ruthlessness and skill with sharp steel. But often, just The Look was enough to get people into line. By the paling of his skin and the quick dance his throat-ball did, the younger man seemed to get the message.
"I... er... I-I'll leave you to it, ah, then..."
He nodded. So did Konrad. Then he petched off, thank the gods.
Konrad looked down and saw the shimmering water had become placid, but stained. A thick scum of boiled-to-debris Tolm was slick and filthy on the top, and tried to be delicate as he poured the tea into a cup... careful... don't let too much of the herb into the cup... then put the rest to one side. That'd be good for tonight, if he had anymore trouble.
He blew on the steaming cup and tasted it. Bitter as buggery but cool enough to drink. He screwed his eyes shut and fought the urge to vomit as he tipped the cup up and up and-
Ah... it felt better. He didn't know how much of his relief was real and how much was his mind telling him it was real, but either way, he felt that tangled nest of barbed wire in his stomach melt away after a few chimes. He swilled the dregs and knocked them back like a shot of 'shine, taking the speck of herbs with it, swallowing it all down.
Syna was high already. Soon the city would move again, he was sure. But he spied the low, dark smudges on the far horizon. A finger-width then, but Konrad knew wind and time would bring them closer, and they would mass over Endrykas like a death shroud.
Storm coming, he thought, placing the cup with the herbal tea and feeling a little better. Best to get things done quickly.
A few chimes later he was limping out of the pavilion's area, a short, important list repeating in his head.
