[Flashback] It's a New Dawn

[Orin Fenix]

Morning, 43 Fall, 514

The early morning light filtering through the shuttered windows hit Orin directly in the eyes, as it did every day. Always a light sleeper, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The smoked-stained timber of the ceiling above him was nothing he hadn’t seen before. He shivered, since last night it felt as if an early frost had hit. He sincerely hoped not. If there had been a frost, it would’ve hit the crops hard, and they were still in the midst of harvest. He knew that if anything harmed the crops it would lead to short tempers and arguments all over the Outpost. It would start with the farmers, filter down to their children, and inevitably make its way down to him. He was, after all, the favorite topic of their teasing and ridicule and usually they didn’t need an excuse to pick on him. With one, it only got worse.

Sighing, he reached for his boots at the foot of the bed. Another dawn, another day. Listening carefully for any sounds of movement in the darkness, he heard only contented snoring. Moving silently, he made his way towards the door. He had long ago mapped out where all the uneven and creaky floorboards were and where everyone slept, so he was able to avoid waking the others up. He flushed in embarrassment as he remembered vividly the time he knocked over the bench that surrounded the dining table. The ensuing crash had woken everyone up, leading to confused shouting that woke the neighbors up and eventually brought a knight in to calm everyone down. He had received such a tongue-lashing that he vowed never to make the same mistake. The result directly led to his care now as he picked his way carefully across the room. It truly was unfair! He woke up before everyone else, worked as hard or harder than everyone else his age, never shirked his chores, and yet was treated with disdain and distrust. Losing his parents was a tragedy, but the real tragedy stemmed from the fact that everyone saw him as a reckless immature fool because of his lack of a father figure and his unconventional upbringing. The problem was he made people uncomfortable and uncomfortable people reacted with anger and fear. Scarcely breathing, he eased the door open. One of the first tasks he had undertaken when he had first moved here, after getting kicked out of his last home, had been to oil the door hinges. The squealing had gotten on his nerves. More importantly, it signaled to everyone within hearing of his early morning excursions. He didn’t want to get yet another scolding because someone caught him and assumed he was sneaking off. With his luck, if he didn’t take every possible precaution, it was bound to happen.

However, long practiced ensured his successful escape. The tentative rays of the sun poked over the horizon. Smiling he took a second to breathe in the sunrise. It was probably the favorite part of his day and it made it seem worth all the trouble it took to get out every day.

[Orin Fenix]

The sky was streaked with a delicate orange and pink that starkly contrasted with the darker blues of the retreating night sky. His favorite story came from one of the few times his father actually attempted to bond with him. It was a lazy winter's morning, and they were outside breaking down some of the larger logs into firewood. Well his father was breaking logs. Orin only came up to his father's knee, and gamely tried to help by dragging sticks taller than he was to the door. His father had laughed and ruffled his hair the first time he had seen this. As the sun started to peek out, his father had swung Orin up on his shoulders, eliciting a squeal from Orin. His father's rough, tenor voice, was lowered into a whisper, as he told Orin a tale. Thank Syna for lighting the world for another day son. As Orin mumbled his thanks, his father contiuned. Your grandfather told me, when I was your age, about the lovers who came together at twilight times. You see, Syna and Leth are passionate for one another. Her light calmed his wildness, while his wildness livened up her light. However, they live in completely separate spheres. The one time they ran off, they left the world in darkness. So, reluctantly, the two parted, but in pity, the other gods let them meet twice a day, at dawn and dusk, and that was enough for them. Orin's father smiled then, but it was a smile touched by a deep-seated grief. Your mother and I used to joke that our love rivaled Syna's and Leth's. There might have been some truth to that after all. She should've been here watching too. With that closing thought, he set Orin down, turning steadfastly back to the woodpile. It was the first and only time he had spoken about Orin's mother.

Coming back to reality, Orin realized that there was still a chill lingering in the air. Making sure the door closed silently behind him, he breathed out a quick thanks to Syna, as was his custom when greeted with a beautiful sunrise since that morning long ago. Next, he jogged to the chicken coop behind the main cottage. Picking up the basket by the door, he went inside. The scolding of the hens inside started immediately, but subsided quickly as they settled back to doze. He smiled good-naturedly at them. There were twelve birds in all. They sounded normal, and didn’t seem to be showing any of the signs of distress they would if a predator had gotten in during the night. So, he took up the task of cleaning the coop and checking for eggs with a sense of relief. He was half afraid that he’d get blamed for any disasters, even if they were clearly out of his control. Stopping at the first nest, he peered at the hen. She was broody and sitting on a clutch of eggs. Peering inside, ignoring her hissing as she fluffed up her feathers, he saw no signs of poop, broken egg, or soiled nesting material. Moving to the next box, with another broody hen, he saw that it was also clean. He grinned. Not having to fight a broody hen definitely qualified as a good start to the day. Their pecks and scratches caused damage that seemed completely disproportional to their size. He had the scars on his hand to prove it. There was no indication of a rotten egg and he saw that they had pooped, so he simply topped up their feed and water and left them to it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite so lucky with the rest of the hens. He cleaned up some minor messes and came away with five eggs, which wasn’t bad considering that winter was rapidly approaching. He dragged his feet as he tidied up, prolonging his time in the hen-house.

[Orin Fenix]

His next stop was probably his least favorite task of the day, milking the goats and he had no intention of getting to it any sooner than he had to. He was convinced that the pair of nanny goats had it in for him and nothing would convince him otherwise. Finally, the coop was as spotless and organized as it was ever going to get and he couldn’t put it off any longer. Approaching the goat shed with trepidation, he steeled himself. At least they hadn’t escaped this time. Once he had come in and found that the door hadn’t been properly latched. The goats had made a run for it. It took him the better part of the day to track them down and he was not eager for a repeat of that experience. They were nasty tempered creatures and he couldn’t wait when caring for them was no longer one of his responsibilities. Just a few more months before I'm out on my own he thought, a little desperately. As he reached for the lead rope of the first goat, she bleated in protest, tossing it out of his way. After several minutes of this, he finally caught it. Giving her a dirty look, he began dragging her to the milking shed, with her fighting every step of the way. Finally, they reached the stand, and seeing the feed, she obediently stuck her head through the stanchion, allowing him to clip it closed. Grabbing a cloth and dipping it in water, he knelt down and carefully cleaned the udder of residual dirt and manure. He’d gotten more than enough reprimands for bringing in dirty milk, thank you very much. Finally, he reached for the bucket and placed it directly underneath the udder. Squeezing the teats, he carefully directed the first squirt outside the bucket. Then, settling into an easy rhythm, he milked her until the udder looked flaccid, signaling him to stop. Placing the bucket on a shelf, he unclipped the stanchion and led the goat back to her stall.

Turning, he regarded the second nanny with more than a bit of alarm. In his opinion, she was probably more intelligent than he was, and he had to constantly be on guard for her tricks. Today, she stared back docilely enough, but he wasn’t fooled for an instant. She was black with tan facial markings and socks, and she munched contentedly on a piece of hay. Grabbing her rope, he led her carefully but she walked sedately behind him, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. He watched her as he milked her but her good behavior continued. Finally, just as he was finishing up, his diligence paid off, as he saw the muscles in her back legs tensing. Snatching the bucket from underneath her, he managed to get it out of the way before she could knock it over, her favorite form of torment. While he saved the milk, he himself wasn’t that lucky, as her hoof slammed into his forearm. Stifling a cry, he backed away quickly, the bucket of warm milk cradled into his body. Setting it down, he wagged a finger at her with a happy grin plastered on his face, chortling out “Not today little lady! I win again.” Feeling a bit smug, he broke into an impromptu dance. He saw nothing wrong with talking to an animal, even if someone else might question his sanity. Giving him the evil eye, she hawked up a piece of phlegm and spat it at him. In his glee, he never saw it coming and it splattered all over the front of his tunic.

Looking at it and groaning with disgust, he realized he had forgotten rule number one: never let down your guard around a nanny goat. He picked up a clean cloth and batted ineffectually at the growing mess. He knew it would stain, and he had just cleaned this shirt too! His only conciliation was that at the rate he was growing, he’d get a new one sooner rather than later. Until then, he’d just have put up with it. Pleased with herself, the nanny didn’t give him any more trouble on the return to the shed, having apparently decided to rest on her laurels for the day. He could’ve sworn that she winked at him as he left the shed. Evil creature. Trudging sullenly back to the cottage, he made himself promise that when he was in control of his own life the only goat he would ever see would be on a plate in front of him.

[Orin Fenix]

Entering the cottage he saw the rest of the inhabitants stirring reluctantly. Knowing that the farmer, his wife, and their three strapping hulks that they called sons would want a hot breakfast, he turned towards the pantry. They would get porridge and like it, he decided, too annoyed about the nanny goat incident to try anything more fancy. If he had his druthers, he’d be making a much more elaborate meal, but the ingredients were limited and he didn’t have much time. Besides, if he wasted food while experimenting he’d get a lecture at best and a beating at worst, so he was inclined to err on the side of caution. It’s not like they’d appreciate it, he thought bitterly to himself. Noting that it was true dawn after hearing the cock crowing with more enthusiasm than accuracy, Orin hastened his movements. Turning he placed the kettle over the fire. While that boiled, he grabbed his favorite pot, throwing in what he judged was more than enough oats to feed four boys and two adults. He added cold water and stirred until it settled into a smooth paste. Realizing that he still had time to spare before the water was ready and loathe to be found ‘lazing about’ he grabbed some apples and began slicing them up to give the porridge a bit of sweetness. After, he didn’t have to torture himself along with everyone else. The water finally boiled, the piercing whistle receiving glares from the three sons who all had stayed out too late the night before. Quickly, but carefully, he wrapped his hands in cloths and took the kettle off its stand hanging over the fire, being careful not to spill any on himself. Pouring carefully, he eyed the level of liquid in the pot, finishing when he judged it ready. Placing the kettle on a higher stand over the fire to keep it warm, but not boiling, he stirred the porridge until it had the right consistency.

Grabbing the bowls he measured out a generous portion into six of them. He truly didn’t want anyone to be hungry during harvest time. He’d gone through that before, and it wasn’t a fate he wished on anyone. Of course, his reasons weren’t entirely altruistic. He’d be out there and he couldn’t justify giving himself a larger breakfast than anyone else. He could hear the accusations already. ‘Greedy,’ ‘ungrateful,’ and ‘selfish,’ were probably the best he could hope for. It had happened so many times that he expected unkind words or a cuff as a matter of course. The worst part about it was that overall the people in Mithryn Outpost were good people. Oh sure there were the troublemakers and malcontents but these were few and far between and generally speaking had their more excessive actions curbed by the Sylirian Knights, who abhorred anything that disturbed the order of the community.

Orin applauded the efforts of the Knights and would never suffer a bad word against them. Sometimes though, he wished they policed the smaller acts of unkindness as rigorously as they policed the larger crimes. But there were only so many of them and it wasn’t their job to settle domestic disputes. And honestly, he was grateful for the charity being shown, it was kind of this family to have taken him in, and the community was being incredibly generous by helping to raise him. He just wished they could be a little more gracious about it. But it was his duty to respect these people and he would continue to be gracious and turn the other cheek as needed. Besides, he had no one but himself to blame for him shyness and general awkwardness. He just wished people weren’t so opaque! Animals he could understand. Tasks were clear, and methodical, and could be done step by step. Even when you were trying something new, there was usually either already an established method or some base you could work from. But people were a closed book. He could never predict their actions and often found himself blurting out things or reacting in ways that people found distasteful. It was why he went out of his way to avoid them. It was much easier that way.

Shaking his head, Orin realized he’d gotten uncharacteristically introspective over the pot of porridge. He wasn’t usually given to bouts of self-examination like that. Listening to the birds singing outside he shook off the last bits of melancholy. After all, while there were difficulties, the joys far outweighed them. And as soon as the harvest was in and there was enough food stored that some could be spared, he would be gone. He’d go to Syliras, where’d he heard of wonders and delights. Surely he could find a place there were people would accept him and he would be free to pursue whatever he wanted. With a true grin, he turned to face the music that the rest of the day would bring. Soon, he told himself, soon enough.

[Orin Fenix]

Breakfast was the usual boisterous affair and Orin tried to stay out of the way as much as possible. He listened to the conversation with only half an ear. Apparently two of the farmer’s sons were courting the same girl, which led to quite a few feats of strength and shows of bravery, or, in Orin's opinion, bouts of severe stupidity. It also appeared to require quite a bit of shouting, as each brother was smitten and equally sure that this girl was the one. This seemed to happen at least once a season. Orin wondered idly if they did it on purpose just to goad their father. If not, it happened with alarming regularity and he wondered why they hadn't worked out a system to avoid it. He supposed there were only a limited number of pretty girls in the Outpost. He’d never really taken much notice of girls and such himself, probably because he knew they wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not that he was bitter. Courting sounded annoying for both sides. Idly, he wondered what the women thought of all this. If he were the one being courted, he would make it very clear to his suitor that he would value sincerity over empty gestures. He didn’t know if that made him romantic or pragmatic. He was inclined to think romantic, since he would want a love that would prove it to him through genuine actions not boasting. Rolling his eyes at the ridiculous turn his thoughts had taken, he thought wryly, Like anyone would ever court me.

Looking around, he noticed that everyone was finishing up. He jumped up and started gathering the empty bowls. Leaving them to soak, he hurried after the others. Grabbing his scythe, he trudged down to the fields, joining the stream of people already heading there. This was his least favorite part of the day. Well, other than dealing with evil she-goats that is. But that was only a small portion of his morning. This was hours and hours of tedious and hard work. There there wasn’t any way to make it easier or more enjoyable. Reluctantly, he took his place in the wheat and started swinging, losing all sense of time as he buckled down. The sun crept higher and higher, banishing the last of the cold from the night and slowly turning the land below mercilessly hot.

Squinting slightly as he gazed skyward, Orin wiped the sweat off his brow. The sun was relentless and he wished, almost prayed, for a cloud to cover it just for a moment. It would be a blessed relief. The sky, however, ignored his silent plea, obstinately staying a pure blue. He hadn't been out in the fields for long and already and the backbreaking work seemed never-ending. Shading his eyes, he groaned at what appeared to be a field of wheat stretching out all the way to the horizon. Objectively, he knew that he was exaggerating, but under the penetrating rays he was feeling out of sorts and cranky. He’d never particularly enjoyed the task of harvesting. He knew though, that if the whole Outpost didn’t chip in, the harvest wouldn’t get done and that would spell disaster. Mithryn would probably survive the shortage, but as the main supplier of food to Syliras, the denizens of that great city might find themselves facing privation and starvation. Since Orin was soon to be a resident, he figured it was in his own best interest to ensure a productive harvest. And while one person wouldn’t make a difference, he wouldn’t be seen as a weak link.

His break over, he went back to work. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. He settled into a rhythm with the sickle, trying to ignore the burning protests of his muscles. When he was younger harvest time hadn’t been so bad. He and the other children had swarmed over the fields after the farmers had finished the main work of the harvest. Their job was to pick up the leftover gleanings, trying to make the most of every plant. They had even made a sort of competition out of it. The one who came back with the most gleanings was immediately hailed as that day’s hero and led the rest of the children in their playing that evening. Orin never won. Not that he hadn’t ever had the most. No, instead the others had ostracized him, not allowing him to play with them. They politely ignored him in company and impolitely tormented him when alone. Through it all he remained smiling. He had quickly learned that rising to their taunts only ended with a fight he would inevitably lose and then he would then take the blame. Also, he found that many of their slights either made no sense or didn’t bother him. They lost interest when he stopped responding, and that stalemate lasted pretty much to this day. Even with all that, though, he thought back fondly to the days when he could go at his own pace.

At least this work, while physically demanding, required only that he pay attention and didn’t require much mental fortitude. That left his mind relatively free to wander. He ran through his chores for that day, glad that he had decided to do as many of them this morning as he could. He knew enough to know that he’d be too tired to do more than inhale the soup he’d left simmering over the hearth, take off his boots, and collapse into his corner for the night. It was how most of his evenings went recently.

[Orin Fenix]

Thinking of the soup, his mouth watered. He had grudgingly been allowed to use some chicken and he had made the most of it. Last night he had thrown the bones in to make stock. Leaving it to simmer overnight, this morning while everyone else was still getting out of bed and was attending to their necessaries, he had removed the remaining bones. Next, he had peeled and finely diced up some onions and carrots and, with the meat, threw it all in the pot. To that, he added some parsley and garlic from the herb garden. Finally he threw in just a dash of the precious salt that was hoarded zealously and only doled out in the smallest of portions. He knew that while it wasn’t much, it would bring out the flavors. He hadn’t had any time to do anything else at that point as everyone else was ready to eat breakfast at that point. After a long day’s work and a full day to simmer though, he knew it would be delicious and much preferable to the plain vegetable soup that they would normally be eating. While he knew that given time and access to more spices, he could create something tastier, it was simple, hearty, and filling food and sometimes less is more. He knew that he’d much prefer a satisfying plain meal than a complex and unfulfilling one. Of course, there was a happy medium. When he got to Syliras, assuming they’d take him, he’d try and find a place that could teach him to master the culinary arts. After all, he thought he was improving! He’d only sliced his fingers a few times, they were all minor cuts and his chopping was getting much faster!

Restless, he channeled his energy into his swings. Thwack! It would be a few moons before he was free and until then he would muddle along. After the decision had been made that he was an adult able to make his own life choices, life had improved measurably for him. There was a grudging acceptance among the rest of the residents of the Outpost that he was their equal. He remembered vividly his rare show of independence at the end of the summer. It had occurred at one of the infrequent gatherings, a wedding in fact. Since every important person at the Outpost had attended if they could, it had given Orin a window of opportunity that he, to everyone’s surprise including his own, had seized.

[Orin Fenix]

Unlike today, the day of the wedding had dawned with a cool breeze to alleviate the sun's rays. The young couple had spoken their vows, and the entire party had waited with a hush. Suddenly, Cheva’s marks appeared, signaling that this union had the blessing of the goddess. With a whoop of joy, everyone rushed around the two lovers, throwing the two onto the shoulders of the crowd and carrying them through the square. The newlyweds had protested, laughing the whole time, but only put up a token resistance. Soon, the dancing and singing started, along with other entertainments and general revelry. Some people swore that Cheva and Sivah themselves were there, but Orin hadn’t seen them and there was no evidence to support it. The gods themselves certainly didn’t seem forthcoming.

As he watched the two moving on with their lives with the blessings of their friends, loved ones, and the gods themselves, something unexpected stirred in Orin. If they can make a new start, why can’t I? I’m old enough and there’s certainly nothing holding me here. A slow anger started building in him. Looking around, he saw that the elders and leaders of the community had settled at their customary table. They were probably taking this rare chance to discuss Outpost business and how they could be furthering their own agendas.

Something compelled Orin to move towards them. Almost marching, he walked with firm purpose as he drew closer. They were completely unaware of his approach, too intent on their private conversation. Standing in front of them, he waited patiently for them to acknowledge his presence. That seemed to be the last item on their agendas however. A few glanced quizzically in his direction and frowned, but were quickly drawn back into their discussions. Bouncing up and down with nervousness, Orin felt his stomach twisting in a knot from anxiety. After what seemed like forever, but what Orin knew was likely only a few chimes, the pressure inside of him finally burst out as he shouted, “I’m leaving!”

That certainly got their attention. Orin suddenly felt pinned to the ground as their eyes swung to him and seemed to bore into him with their intensity. He gulped, blushing a furious shade of crimson, but gallantly plunged on, seeming to lose control of his own voice. “I mean, I would like, that is if you don’t mind, subject to your approval of course, and I know that it’s asking a lot, but would you be willing, and I hope I’m not asking too much which I think I’ve already said but anyway what I wanted to know was could I, after working for it of course, be given enough supplies and money, I mean, if there’s extras, to make my own way or at least could we start to talk about what I could be doing because I know I’m getting old and am a burden and I honesty think it would be best for everyone if…” Mortified, Orin clamped his mouth shut. He had been babbling. Now he remembered why he tried to speak as little as possible and why he always thought before he opened his mouth. Otherwise, he had no idea what would come pouring out.

Taking a deep breath he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He seemed to have shocked his listeners into silence. Or else they were trying to reason out if there had been any sense at all in his earlier ramble. Before he opened his mouth again, he ordered his words and came up with what he hoped was a compelling speech. Not that he had any experience with giving speeches or compelling others. Mostly he was the one being compelled. Realizing he thoughts were going on a tangent, he stamped them down. His faced still flushed, and not in a pleasant way, he tried again. “What I meant to say is that I’m of an age where I should be thinking of making my own path in the world. However, I need supplies. I would be willing to work through the harvest season to pay off my debt to purchase them. After that, we would most likely part ways.” Running out of words, he tacked on a quick “Sorry to interrupt and thank you for you time sirs and ladies.” Then he bolted. He bolted in a way that he hoped looked dignified. However, it was definitely a retreat and probably just looked panicked. Despite that, he was feeling rather good about himself. He hadn’t known he had a backbone at all.

Coming back to the present with another swing of his scythe, he grinned. Whatever he had done or said had worked. While the whole sequence of events was, he would be the first to admit, a bit of a blur, he felt it had marked a turning point for him. He hoped he hadn’t burned any bridges with his performance but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care. In a strange way, he felt as if his entire life since his father’s death had been one long business transaction. He had agreed to be obedient and hardworking for as long as he was supported by the Outpost and its people. In exchange, they would feed, clothe, and raise him as they saw fit. Eventually they would send him on his merry with enough to survive until he could make a living. Now, it felt like both sides were fulfilling their duties and this was simply the culmination of three years of deals.

He realized that this might be a terrible callous and uncharitable thought to have about the people who had taken him in out of the goodness of their hearts. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been kind. They had treated him well, in their own way, in probably the only way they knew how. He in return had never ducked his duty or turned down any task they had given him. It wasn’t either side’s fault that the love simply hadn’t been there. Orin had been lonely for so long that he didn’t even realize what it felt like to be alone. He simply was. As the scythe rose and fell mechanically, all he felt was a grim satisfaction that as soon as the last sheath of grain was packed away, last piece of meat smoked, and last woodpile stocked, he would be on his merry way. It didn’t even matter that it would be winter and travel would be severely restricted. It would take more than a bit of snow and ice to delay him. Suddenly, the end of the field didn’t seem so far off after all.

[Orin Fenix]

Suddenly Orin tripped and there was piercing pain in his leg. A few seconds after the cut, Orin just stood there stupidly, staring as his blood dripped into the ground. Then, his mind turned on again and he did what any normal person does when they had a scythe in their leg. He screamed. His fellow reapers looked up in shock, and the closest two started running towards him. He just waited, dumbfounded. He had been such an idiot. There hadn't been any issue when he was harvesting on flat ground. Like all children raised at the Outpost, he was taught the proper farming techniques from a very young age. Grip the first handle with an underhand grip using your left hand and the second handle with an overhand grip using your right hand. Place the blade of the scythe where it was just touching the ground. Swing across your body from right to left. Watch the wheat fall perfectly straight as the cradle sweeps across it, just asking to be gathered. Step forward and repeat.

What Orin had failed to notice because he was daydreaming, trusting in his muscle memory to do the trick, was that the ground had been steadily sloping upward. Normally he would've switched directions to make sure he was properly mowing from uphill to downhill. He also would've starting paying much more attention to his footing, since it was much easier to sleep and fall on you blade. Which is exactly what had happened to Orin. As he stepped forward his left foot hit an especially slick patch of grass and he pitched forward. His scythe was already in motion of course and bit deeply into his left leg before being wrenched out as hit hit the ground. He had pushed himself to his hands and knees unconsciously before his brain finally caught up to what his body was telling him. The wound was pouring blood at what appeared to Orin’s untrained eyes to be a dangerous rate. It was excruciatingly painful. The blade had cut deeply into the back of Orin’s left calf, and there was a flap of skin waving gently in a slight breeze.

As the rescuers reached him, he managed to stop screaming although his heart was pounding in his chest. They urged him to turn over so they could look at the wound. He complied and they peered at it. One of this sucked his breath through his teeth, making an odd hissing sound as it passed. It was strange what you noticed when you were in shock Belatedly, he listened to what the man was saying. It's a nasty one but you'll live. Missed the artery. C'mon let's get you the healer With that, he was bodily picked up, the man holding his legs being extremely careful not to jostle him as they manhandled them to the Outpost. They weren't so far out that it made sense to wait for a stretcher and apparently his wound looked mild enough that moving him wasn't an issue. Orin was in no position to argue with them as he felt a kind of lethargy come upon his limbs.

As they drew nearer the walls, a pair of knights detached themselves from their guard post to take stock of the situation. He was quickly passed to their care after a brief sketch of what happened. Orin thanked them profusely, which they brushed off as just doing their job. He was babbling slight; even though he wasn’t that badly hurt he’d never really had an injury this severe before and he was feeling a bit woozy at the sight of his own blood in such quantities. The slight rocking and swaying as the knights carried him wasn’t helping much either. He shut his eyes in an attempt to steady his nerves, and before he knew it, blackness descended upon him.

[Orin Fenix]

Orin came to on a table in the healer’s residence. His leg hurt, and had an odd sensation that he couldn’t place until he saw that his pants’ leg had been removed since it was ruined anyway. Poking and proding at the wound, the healer muttered something about careless farmers and how they should be left to rot. Keeping up his steady tirade busied, the young man busied himself with pouring out various medicines and brewing a tea while Orin gritted his teeth. He knew from experience that rushing a healer was like trying to push a boulder uphill. They'd just put you in your place so thoroughly that you followed their every suggestion meekly. It must be part of their training. Finally, the healer finished with his concoctions, turning back to Orin with a steaming mug of tea.

Taking it with a grimace, Orin cautiously sniffed it, recoiling a bit at the odor. He was convinced that healers made their brews as nasty as possible to discourage injuries or, at least, trips to the healer. If so, it was remarkably effective. Pinching his nose, he downed the cup. It burned a bit going down but it was not so hot that it was intolerable. As he put the cup down and let go of his nose, the aftertaste hit him and it was, indeed, awful. It was an extremely odd cross between bitter and sour. Gods, what was in that? The healer frowned at him, but replied easily enough. A blend of azhiltu, heldrog, and tolm along with a few other herbs. Here. Bite this. The healer handed him a belt, and Orin bit down as instructed, dreading what was to come. The healer took out a needle and thread. He heated the needle under a candle for a moment, then threaded the needle carefully. Marching over to Orin with needle in hand, he pinched Orin's skin closed and said, This is going to sting.

Sting was mostly definitely an understatement. Orin felt faint as the healer stitched him up with neat, even stitches. He would normally be impressed at the man's skill but right now all he could feel was nauseous. He averted his eyes from the sight of his skin be put back together, choosing instead to examine the shelves of the healers shop. They were, not surprisingly, filled with various plants, some ground, some dried and hanging from the ceiling, and some still alive, thriving in their pots. He wondered if, when this was over, he could compare notes with the healer and maybe trade clippings and seeds. There was probably no harm in asking and maybe Orin could give him some culinary uses for the plants while learning their medicinal properties. Maybe he could even teach the healer how to make teas and medicines that didn't want to make people vomit. After all, it was the least he could do to repay this man, and if he personally ended up benefiting, so much the better.

A few minutes and the healer tied of the string and cut it, gesturing at Orin to remove the belt. Orin took it out and handed it over. He took a minute to look at the ugly red cut interspersed with the neat white stitches. The healer was fiddling around at the counter again and Orin was content to wait there and take deep breathes in an attempt to calm his brain and distance himself from the pain. The healer turned back to Orin with a length of bandage in one hand and a ground paste in a ceramic mortar. The healer dressed Orin's wound and wrapped it carefully in linen, explaining all the while. This paste is a mix mostly of beltor and azhiltu. It should help reduced scarring and stave off any infection. I want you to change your bandage and the poultice twice a day. I'll also give you a tea made out of connol and tolm to help you with the pain. It's also good if you're having trouble sleeping. Bed rest for a few days and keep off the leg as much as possible. You can walk but no lifting. And if you see any signs of infection, redness, fever, streaks come back immediately. Otherwise, I'll see you in a week to remove the stitches. The healer stepped back, surveying his work, seeming satisfied. The man then handed Orin two packets of medicines, and held out his hand expectantly. That'll be six gold mizas. Orin sighed, but reached into his pouch and counted out the coins carefully. It would set him back, especially if he couldn't work, but he thought he could make it up in time before he left. As he swung his legs off the side of the table and started slowly hobbling home, he was even more determined to get out of the Outpost. And he knew he would. It was only a matter of time.

[Katelyn Marks]

Due Rewards

“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”

― Philip Pullman

 

Orin

Skills
➢ Socialization +1
➢ Observation +4
➢ Animal Husbandry +2
➢ Farming +2
➢ Cooking +2

Lores
➢ Cooking: Making Porridge
➢ Cooking: Creating a Garnish
➢ Cooking: Basic Soup Ingredience
➢ Cooking: Making a Broth
➢ Farming: Harvesting with a Sickle
➢ Being the Black Sheep
➢ Taking Life by the Reins

Consequences: Orin is going to have a very nasty scar on his leg from the sickle.

Comments: This was a really nice thread to read. The part about Syna and Leth made me smile. I'm a hopeless romantic. The rest of it was both sad and funny. I felt sorry for Orin, but at the same time couldn't help but laugh especially at the bit with the nanny goats. It was refreshing to read a farming thread.

 

PC 2

Skills
➢ Skill 1
➢ Skill 2

Lores
➢ Lore 1
➢ Lore 2

Misc.

If you have any concerns or questions about your rewards please feel free to send me a message. Also, please edit your original grade request and mark it as graded. Thank you and enjoy!