2 Zi'da 721
Wealth Skill: Fieldcraft
Dan opened one eye and watched his breath float away like smoke in the cold pre-dawn air. He could hear the snow whispering across the tent roof as the flurry intensified.A thin line of it had blown in through the crack under the tent flap, even tied down as tightly as it was. For a moment he lay still, curled in the warm bed. He could faintly smell the lavender he'd scattered inside the rough pillow to sweeten it. It did smell good, and he'd had fewer bug bites since, as lavender was an insect repellent as well as supposedly offering sweet dreams - not that he'd noticed that.
He pulled his clothes into the bed to preserve as much warmth as possible, and wriggled into them before he slid out of bed. Hopping across the chilly rugs to the brazier, he raked the handful of banked coals together, knocked off the protective coating of ash, and hung a pot of water over it to boil, before grabbing his boots and shoving his feet into them before they got any colder.
The ponies wanted out, so he unfastened the tent flap and hung on, anticipating the wind that whipped at it, and kept the snow blowng around rather than settling. Cloud and Smoke, shaggy with their cold weather coats, pushed past him and put their heads down to graze while the grass was still available. Dan grimaced at them, and then shrugged. Living as part of nature meant dealing with the bad as well as the good. He might as well follow the ponies' example and get his chores done before the weather got even worse. He put his head into the wind and trudged towards the stream. The thin layer of snow creaked under his feet and clung - and melted - in every crease of his clothes.
A gust of wind yanked at his coat, half-choking him as the ties holding his hood closed dug suddenly into hs neck. He stumbled sideways a pace as he clawed the ties down towards his collarbone. His feet hit an area of ice and both feet shot out from under him. He fell hard on his backside with a snarl. He rolled to his side, then to hands and knees as he climbed slowly and painfully back to his feet. He dusted himself off, but the wind caught the dampness of the melting snow and drove the chill into his bones.
The flurries of snow hid the dip of the stream's bank and although he probed with the end of his spear, he still managed put a foot down on unsupported frosty grass. He fell again, landing on his side this time and sliding down into the stream before he could stop. A pungent smell told him he'd slid through a patch of wild garlic and bruised the leaves, and water seeped into his boot. Clearly, totrial was going to be something of a trial, as the joke went. He harvested the garlic with cold-clumsy fingers, snagged a fistful of the watercress that grew all arc round, and checked his fish trap. It was empty. The trial was definitely not going his way. Some trials were like that, he acknowledged ruefully, haulng himself back onto dry land and orienting himself in the blinding flurries by the wind direction.
A spray of bright colour snagged at the corner of his vision, red against the browns and whites and dull greens, and he turned to check it more closely. A curve of thorny dog-rose arched out of its bush with a few rosehips clinging to it. Dan's eyes widened in delight and a grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. That was better. Rosehips could survive the snows and still be edible, he knew, but often the birds had eaten them by this point. He scurried over to the bush and sniffed cautiously. It smelt fine, so he wrapped his fingers around one in almost a caress, and picked it off its thorny branch. It was frost-softened, but rosehips could convert some of their sugar into alcohol to stop themselves freezing, so it was still fit to eat. He could make them into both a tea and a sweet syrup, not particularly filling on their own, but definitely a treat. He stuffed them into his gathering bag and turned for home, moving carefully to avoid more falls.
When he finally got there, he changed into dry clothing and huddled beside the brazier to thaw out. His leg ached, but it moved well enough, so there didn't seem to be any major harm done. He took out the rosehips, split each one in half, and removed the seeds. The seeds and the central pulp went into one cup, and the fleshy outer layer into another. He added hot water to both, so that the seeds and pulp could brew into a tea - thugh he would have to strain out the seeds before he drank it, they weren't good to eat - and the outer layer could turn into a syrupy pulp of its own.
He still needed something more substantial to go with it though. He scooped a handful of the precious flour into one of the bowls, added a pinch of salt, and enough water to make a dough. He set a pan on the edge of the fire, scooped out a blob of fat left from the last deer he had caught and dropped it in the pan. It sat there unchanging for a moment and then slowly began to shrink as the pan warmed.
Dan took a small piece of dough, rolled it into a ball and then squashed it flattish between his palms. That would have to do, he decided, setting it down and starting another. He didn't use flour as much, as it had to be bought rather than gathered, and he didn't have as much experience - or equipment - with or for it. He was about halfway through the dough when he looked up and saw that the fat had all melted and was beginning to smoke. He scrambled to drop disks of dough into it, and was rewarded with a scorching smell that made him wince. He snatched up a fork, dug it under the nearest one, and flipped it over. Yes, it had scorched more than cooked. He flipped the others too, and then had to rush to get the other half of the dough flattened into disks. At last he had a stack of them that looked cooked, some for now, some for later, and the bottom of the pan was dotted with burned bits of dough.
He set the pan aside to clean later, slathered some of the disks with the rosehip syrup, and bit it. They were, of course, a bit burned around the edges, but they were hot and filling, and their blandness meant that the only other taste was the rosehips. He strained the tea, and alternated bites with sips, luxuriating in the flavour and sweetness.
Once he had eaten, he cleaned everything up, packed it away, and took out his current craft project to work on rather than venture out into the weather again.
He was piecing together some of the rabbit furs that inevitably piled up as a result of feeding himself, and turning them into rabbit-fur blanket. It was warmer and lighter than a thick quilt, easier to pack for travel and hardwearing enough to double as a rug if he needed one. All it needed was time and effort, and when the weather closed in, he had time in plenty and the effort kept him busy and occupied. Cylus tended to be a time to huddle down with a stack of materials and make things - between trips to collect snow for water, cooking meals for himself, tending the fire and tending his ponies - but most of the arc he had something to keep his hands working, whether that was mending or cleaning or preserving or preparing for the cold seasons. He poked the awl through one fur and then another, following it up by poking sinew through the resulting holes to fasten the pieces together. They were a little tough to use just a needle on, but if he pre-punched the holes with the awl, that worked. He was almost done with this blanket, and the completed part fell in folds over his cold legs and feet, warming them nicely, even as he began to tidy up the edges with a simple blanket stitch.
There would be good times and bad, times where everything went well and times like this that didn't. But really all it meant was that nature balanced itself out. He smiled ruefully, and punched a few more holes for the needle, taking care not to poke his own fingers. Being a part of nature meant dealing with its ups and downs. That didn't mean he had to enjoy the downs as much as the ups, though.
"Signed words" Spoken words
Wealth Skill: Fieldcraft
Dan opened one eye and watched his breath float away like smoke in the cold pre-dawn air. He could hear the snow whispering across the tent roof as the flurry intensified.A thin line of it had blown in through the crack under the tent flap, even tied down as tightly as it was. For a moment he lay still, curled in the warm bed. He could faintly smell the lavender he'd scattered inside the rough pillow to sweeten it. It did smell good, and he'd had fewer bug bites since, as lavender was an insect repellent as well as supposedly offering sweet dreams - not that he'd noticed that.
He pulled his clothes into the bed to preserve as much warmth as possible, and wriggled into them before he slid out of bed. Hopping across the chilly rugs to the brazier, he raked the handful of banked coals together, knocked off the protective coating of ash, and hung a pot of water over it to boil, before grabbing his boots and shoving his feet into them before they got any colder.
The ponies wanted out, so he unfastened the tent flap and hung on, anticipating the wind that whipped at it, and kept the snow blowng around rather than settling. Cloud and Smoke, shaggy with their cold weather coats, pushed past him and put their heads down to graze while the grass was still available. Dan grimaced at them, and then shrugged. Living as part of nature meant dealing with the bad as well as the good. He might as well follow the ponies' example and get his chores done before the weather got even worse. He put his head into the wind and trudged towards the stream. The thin layer of snow creaked under his feet and clung - and melted - in every crease of his clothes.
A gust of wind yanked at his coat, half-choking him as the ties holding his hood closed dug suddenly into hs neck. He stumbled sideways a pace as he clawed the ties down towards his collarbone. His feet hit an area of ice and both feet shot out from under him. He fell hard on his backside with a snarl. He rolled to his side, then to hands and knees as he climbed slowly and painfully back to his feet. He dusted himself off, but the wind caught the dampness of the melting snow and drove the chill into his bones.
The flurries of snow hid the dip of the stream's bank and although he probed with the end of his spear, he still managed put a foot down on unsupported frosty grass. He fell again, landing on his side this time and sliding down into the stream before he could stop. A pungent smell told him he'd slid through a patch of wild garlic and bruised the leaves, and water seeped into his boot. Clearly, totrial was going to be something of a trial, as the joke went. He harvested the garlic with cold-clumsy fingers, snagged a fistful of the watercress that grew all arc round, and checked his fish trap. It was empty. The trial was definitely not going his way. Some trials were like that, he acknowledged ruefully, haulng himself back onto dry land and orienting himself in the blinding flurries by the wind direction.
A spray of bright colour snagged at the corner of his vision, red against the browns and whites and dull greens, and he turned to check it more closely. A curve of thorny dog-rose arched out of its bush with a few rosehips clinging to it. Dan's eyes widened in delight and a grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. That was better. Rosehips could survive the snows and still be edible, he knew, but often the birds had eaten them by this point. He scurried over to the bush and sniffed cautiously. It smelt fine, so he wrapped his fingers around one in almost a caress, and picked it off its thorny branch. It was frost-softened, but rosehips could convert some of their sugar into alcohol to stop themselves freezing, so it was still fit to eat. He could make them into both a tea and a sweet syrup, not particularly filling on their own, but definitely a treat. He stuffed them into his gathering bag and turned for home, moving carefully to avoid more falls.
When he finally got there, he changed into dry clothing and huddled beside the brazier to thaw out. His leg ached, but it moved well enough, so there didn't seem to be any major harm done. He took out the rosehips, split each one in half, and removed the seeds. The seeds and the central pulp went into one cup, and the fleshy outer layer into another. He added hot water to both, so that the seeds and pulp could brew into a tea - thugh he would have to strain out the seeds before he drank it, they weren't good to eat - and the outer layer could turn into a syrupy pulp of its own.
He still needed something more substantial to go with it though. He scooped a handful of the precious flour into one of the bowls, added a pinch of salt, and enough water to make a dough. He set a pan on the edge of the fire, scooped out a blob of fat left from the last deer he had caught and dropped it in the pan. It sat there unchanging for a moment and then slowly began to shrink as the pan warmed.
Dan took a small piece of dough, rolled it into a ball and then squashed it flattish between his palms. That would have to do, he decided, setting it down and starting another. He didn't use flour as much, as it had to be bought rather than gathered, and he didn't have as much experience - or equipment - with or for it. He was about halfway through the dough when he looked up and saw that the fat had all melted and was beginning to smoke. He scrambled to drop disks of dough into it, and was rewarded with a scorching smell that made him wince. He snatched up a fork, dug it under the nearest one, and flipped it over. Yes, it had scorched more than cooked. He flipped the others too, and then had to rush to get the other half of the dough flattened into disks. At last he had a stack of them that looked cooked, some for now, some for later, and the bottom of the pan was dotted with burned bits of dough.
He set the pan aside to clean later, slathered some of the disks with the rosehip syrup, and bit it. They were, of course, a bit burned around the edges, but they were hot and filling, and their blandness meant that the only other taste was the rosehips. He strained the tea, and alternated bites with sips, luxuriating in the flavour and sweetness.
Once he had eaten, he cleaned everything up, packed it away, and took out his current craft project to work on rather than venture out into the weather again.
He was piecing together some of the rabbit furs that inevitably piled up as a result of feeding himself, and turning them into rabbit-fur blanket. It was warmer and lighter than a thick quilt, easier to pack for travel and hardwearing enough to double as a rug if he needed one. All it needed was time and effort, and when the weather closed in, he had time in plenty and the effort kept him busy and occupied. Cylus tended to be a time to huddle down with a stack of materials and make things - between trips to collect snow for water, cooking meals for himself, tending the fire and tending his ponies - but most of the arc he had something to keep his hands working, whether that was mending or cleaning or preserving or preparing for the cold seasons. He poked the awl through one fur and then another, following it up by poking sinew through the resulting holes to fasten the pieces together. They were a little tough to use just a needle on, but if he pre-punched the holes with the awl, that worked. He was almost done with this blanket, and the completed part fell in folds over his cold legs and feet, warming them nicely, even as he began to tidy up the edges with a simple blanket stitch.
There would be good times and bad, times where everything went well and times like this that didn't. But really all it meant was that nature balanced itself out. He smiled ruefully, and punched a few more holes for the needle, taking care not to poke his own fingers. Being a part of nature meant dealing with its ups and downs. That didn't mean he had to enjoy the downs as much as the ups, though.
Filler Text
