3 Cylus 720
Wealth skill: Fieldcraft
Dan opened his eyes to darkness, which wasn't unexpected seeing as it was Cylus and dark all the time, and to Cloud's insistent nudging, which was rather more unexpected and probably meant something somewhere had gone wrong. He made a wordless growl of exasperation and stretched his other senses to try and figure out the problem. No unexpected sounds reached his ears as he lifted his head from his warm cocoon of patched blankets. He flared his nostrils to the cold air, picking up the smells of horse and human and damp ground. Pine scents from the boughs that made his mattress, faint smell of hay from the precious stored fodder. No smoke and heated metal. No fire, he realised with a jolt of fear. It must have gone out in the night. Fek!
He hauled himself rapidly out of his bedding, leaving it coiled out of long habit to hold as much of the body heat it had gathered as it could, and stood shivering in his tent. Cloud backed off with a satisfied snort, trusting him to fix the problem, since he was the one with hands. He had slept in his oldest, most ragged, shirt and trousers. Now he dressed by touch, as he often did in the cold cycle when the sun got up long after he did and the banked warmth of the fire in the brazier gave little enough light, shoving half frozen feet into his boots and wrapping his heavy, quilted, coat around his body. He was incredibly grateful to his past self for those habits, because they meant everything was (or at least should be, if nothing else had gone wrong) where he could find it easily even in the dark.
The first thing he did, once he'd ensured he wasn't about to immediately freeze to death, was to reach out a cautious hand to the brazier. It too was cold, which meant the fire had been out for some time and he snarled at himself for failing to bank it properly. The second thing he did was to turn back the tent flap so that he could make the most of what scant natural light there was available. He carried the brazier into the best light and poked through the ash, hoping for embers he could coax back into life and flame before he froze to death slowly over several breaks. No luck in that, only a couple of part burned sticks and a scrap of dried horse-apple. He sighed at the prospect of having to start from scratch, and shoveled the ash into a basket in case he found something to use it in later.
He laid the part burned sticks at the base of the metal bowl that formed the brazier and crumbled dried horse apple to a fine powder over the top of them to make the tinder he needed. Powder like that caught and held sparks better than a solid lump of it would, and he wasn't about to take more risks with his life, or with his horses' lives for that matter. Nature didn't care enough to protect you, you had to do that for yourself, and if you did something foolish, like let the fire you depended on go out, then nature would blithely trample you down as it swept on its way. It was honest in that respect, unlike people who said one thing with their words and another with their actions, and got angry if you obeyed the actions. Never mind whether you actually understood the words or not... He shook his head and focused on the task in front of him. Now was not the time for rambling off in his thoughts.
He needed kindling too. Something still thin that would catch alight easily, but slightly larger and thicker than the tinder. He warmed his hands up under his armpits, and then took up his knife and a dry stick. He shaved slivers of wood, thin enough that they curled away from his blade and tried not to cut so far that the shavings came off entirely. It would be easier to handle a feathered stick covered in curly shavings than a pile of loose ones. He didn't always succeed, but he tossed the loose ones into the bowl of the brazier anyway. It wasn't as if the feathery bits had to be neat or pretty or even. They just had to be thin. Finally he thought he had enough, at the cost of a nicked thumb and cramped fingers. He absently wiped the knife and sheathed it on the third try, sucking the tiny wound clean. He propped the feather stick in the brazier, carried it closer to the main stack of fuel and took out his flint and steel striker.
He had to rub life back into his fingers before he could try to strike sparks. He wanted to curl up in whatever residual warmth remained to his blankets, but the feral part of him knew all too well that that was the way to fall asleep and never wake up again, particularly in Cylus. Instead, he bent over the brazier and its fuel, held the steel of his striker close to the precious tinder, and struck the flint down it. Sparks shuddered and spattered under his fingers, then died without catching. He changed his angle and struck again. This time a bit of powder caught. He blew gently on the tiny flame, coaxing it along, nudging more powder and shavings over to feed it, until the charred wood of the partly burned sticks caught too. He added more fuel cautiously, careful not to overwhelm the fire, until it was going strong enough to survive, and by extension, meant he would survive as well.
Relief crashed through him, and he sagged down onto his bed, vowing to be more careful in future. He never, ever, wanted to go through this again. He couldn't sit there for long though, and eventually, he pushed himself back to his feet. He closed the tent flap to keep the warmth in, doled out a ration of fodder to Cloud and Smoke, giving Cloud extra pats and head knob scratches in gratitude for her sense in waking him, and thawed a bucket of snow for water for them all. Then he set about getting food for himself.
He needed to warm up inside as well as out, so he needed to make something hot, and simple, both for now, and for later. He poured some of his share of the water into a cookpot, hacked a strip of dried meat into clumsy shreds with his knife, and dropped the meat into the water to simmer slowly into a plain broth. While he waited, he put a flatter pan over the heat and tossed a handful of hazelnuts into the pan to roast. They cooked quickly, filling the air with their rich, nutty aroma, and all he needed to do was sit by the fire, absorb the warmth, and stir them every so often. If he wasn't quick enough to stir, the scorching smell of an over done nut was all the reminder he needed.
Once the hazelnuts were done, he pulled the pan off the heat, checked whether more fuel was needed - and he was sure he'd be doing that a lot more often than usual for the next season or more, just to soothe his nerves - and lowered the broth pot into its place. He snatched a too hot nut from the pan and had to juggle it rapidly from hand to hand until he finally tossed it in his mouth and blew round it to cool his fingers. The nut was blissful, living up to the richness its scent had promised, with only a slightly bitter undertone from the papery brown husk that he didn't have the wherewithall to remove after the roasting was done. People who lived in houses and owned plenty of clean, spare, cloths, could easily rub the husk off between two layers of cloth for a purer taste, but he was fine with what he had.
He had his freedom these days. He could choose where he lived, and he chose to be out here, out in the cold heart of nature. He was far happier and contented out here, despite fires that went out, and the hard work of finding and storing food and fuel. He had a home that suited him, and companionship, in the form of Cloud and Smoke, that understood him and accepted him as he was rather than trying to force him to be something he wasn't. What more did he need than that?
Wealth skill: Fieldcraft
Dan opened his eyes to darkness, which wasn't unexpected seeing as it was Cylus and dark all the time, and to Cloud's insistent nudging, which was rather more unexpected and probably meant something somewhere had gone wrong. He made a wordless growl of exasperation and stretched his other senses to try and figure out the problem. No unexpected sounds reached his ears as he lifted his head from his warm cocoon of patched blankets. He flared his nostrils to the cold air, picking up the smells of horse and human and damp ground. Pine scents from the boughs that made his mattress, faint smell of hay from the precious stored fodder. No smoke and heated metal. No fire, he realised with a jolt of fear. It must have gone out in the night. Fek!
He hauled himself rapidly out of his bedding, leaving it coiled out of long habit to hold as much of the body heat it had gathered as it could, and stood shivering in his tent. Cloud backed off with a satisfied snort, trusting him to fix the problem, since he was the one with hands. He had slept in his oldest, most ragged, shirt and trousers. Now he dressed by touch, as he often did in the cold cycle when the sun got up long after he did and the banked warmth of the fire in the brazier gave little enough light, shoving half frozen feet into his boots and wrapping his heavy, quilted, coat around his body. He was incredibly grateful to his past self for those habits, because they meant everything was (or at least should be, if nothing else had gone wrong) where he could find it easily even in the dark.
The first thing he did, once he'd ensured he wasn't about to immediately freeze to death, was to reach out a cautious hand to the brazier. It too was cold, which meant the fire had been out for some time and he snarled at himself for failing to bank it properly. The second thing he did was to turn back the tent flap so that he could make the most of what scant natural light there was available. He carried the brazier into the best light and poked through the ash, hoping for embers he could coax back into life and flame before he froze to death slowly over several breaks. No luck in that, only a couple of part burned sticks and a scrap of dried horse-apple. He sighed at the prospect of having to start from scratch, and shoveled the ash into a basket in case he found something to use it in later.
He laid the part burned sticks at the base of the metal bowl that formed the brazier and crumbled dried horse apple to a fine powder over the top of them to make the tinder he needed. Powder like that caught and held sparks better than a solid lump of it would, and he wasn't about to take more risks with his life, or with his horses' lives for that matter. Nature didn't care enough to protect you, you had to do that for yourself, and if you did something foolish, like let the fire you depended on go out, then nature would blithely trample you down as it swept on its way. It was honest in that respect, unlike people who said one thing with their words and another with their actions, and got angry if you obeyed the actions. Never mind whether you actually understood the words or not... He shook his head and focused on the task in front of him. Now was not the time for rambling off in his thoughts.
He needed kindling too. Something still thin that would catch alight easily, but slightly larger and thicker than the tinder. He warmed his hands up under his armpits, and then took up his knife and a dry stick. He shaved slivers of wood, thin enough that they curled away from his blade and tried not to cut so far that the shavings came off entirely. It would be easier to handle a feathered stick covered in curly shavings than a pile of loose ones. He didn't always succeed, but he tossed the loose ones into the bowl of the brazier anyway. It wasn't as if the feathery bits had to be neat or pretty or even. They just had to be thin. Finally he thought he had enough, at the cost of a nicked thumb and cramped fingers. He absently wiped the knife and sheathed it on the third try, sucking the tiny wound clean. He propped the feather stick in the brazier, carried it closer to the main stack of fuel and took out his flint and steel striker.
He had to rub life back into his fingers before he could try to strike sparks. He wanted to curl up in whatever residual warmth remained to his blankets, but the feral part of him knew all too well that that was the way to fall asleep and never wake up again, particularly in Cylus. Instead, he bent over the brazier and its fuel, held the steel of his striker close to the precious tinder, and struck the flint down it. Sparks shuddered and spattered under his fingers, then died without catching. He changed his angle and struck again. This time a bit of powder caught. He blew gently on the tiny flame, coaxing it along, nudging more powder and shavings over to feed it, until the charred wood of the partly burned sticks caught too. He added more fuel cautiously, careful not to overwhelm the fire, until it was going strong enough to survive, and by extension, meant he would survive as well.
Relief crashed through him, and he sagged down onto his bed, vowing to be more careful in future. He never, ever, wanted to go through this again. He couldn't sit there for long though, and eventually, he pushed himself back to his feet. He closed the tent flap to keep the warmth in, doled out a ration of fodder to Cloud and Smoke, giving Cloud extra pats and head knob scratches in gratitude for her sense in waking him, and thawed a bucket of snow for water for them all. Then he set about getting food for himself.
He needed to warm up inside as well as out, so he needed to make something hot, and simple, both for now, and for later. He poured some of his share of the water into a cookpot, hacked a strip of dried meat into clumsy shreds with his knife, and dropped the meat into the water to simmer slowly into a plain broth. While he waited, he put a flatter pan over the heat and tossed a handful of hazelnuts into the pan to roast. They cooked quickly, filling the air with their rich, nutty aroma, and all he needed to do was sit by the fire, absorb the warmth, and stir them every so often. If he wasn't quick enough to stir, the scorching smell of an over done nut was all the reminder he needed.
Once the hazelnuts were done, he pulled the pan off the heat, checked whether more fuel was needed - and he was sure he'd be doing that a lot more often than usual for the next season or more, just to soothe his nerves - and lowered the broth pot into its place. He snatched a too hot nut from the pan and had to juggle it rapidly from hand to hand until he finally tossed it in his mouth and blew round it to cool his fingers. The nut was blissful, living up to the richness its scent had promised, with only a slightly bitter undertone from the papery brown husk that he didn't have the wherewithall to remove after the roasting was done. People who lived in houses and owned plenty of clean, spare, cloths, could easily rub the husk off between two layers of cloth for a purer taste, but he was fine with what he had.
He had his freedom these days. He could choose where he lived, and he chose to be out here, out in the cold heart of nature. He was far happier and contented out here, despite fires that went out, and the hard work of finding and storing food and fuel. He had a home that suited him, and companionship, in the form of Cloud and Smoke, that understood him and accepted him as he was rather than trying to force him to be something he wasn't. What more did he need than that?
