His eyes opened to a dusty light filtering through a window. It seemed strange to him, that window. So high and open, lettings the suns' light come through and illuminate the bedroom. Hanging in the air next to his head was a small white feather, floating against the beam of light as if held aloft by it. It had come from his pillow, he knew, but that seemed strange as well. Feather pillows, high windows, wooden floors and warm beds? This was not his cot in tge barracks. This was a lavish joke, probably played on him by Strenn and Kalff and the others.
'Make him think he's some lord now!' He could hear the jests in their voices, even in the silence. He smiled against the sunlight that hurt his eyes. In truth, it was a good prank. He was so warm and comfortable in the bed, covered with a heavy maroon blanket that trapped in the heat like a furnace. He dared not move, because when they realized he had awoken, the ruse would come to an end, and he was not ready for that. Just a few more moments of solace...
But eventually, he had to move. He shifted gingerly in the fluffy mattress, swinging an onyx-black foot over to place his bare feet on hard wood. Wherever they had moved him, he was in a house of luxury. One he didn't recognize. He pushed himself slowly to his feet. For the first time in arcs, he didn't hurt. His lower back wasn't sore, his muscles didn't ache, his head actually felt normal. It was strange, but Yri didn't feel like he'd been fighting his whole life. He felt like he lived in this lap of luxury, like he belonged in this house.
And so he proceeded to open the heavy door, which was slightly ajar. The smell of cooking meat greeted him, and he realized he was famished. The sweet scent of pork made his head swim, but he braced himself against the doorframe. What had happened? How had he come to be here? He tried to call out to Strenn, to Kalff, to Lirea even. But his voice was trapped in a throat drier than the deserts. A coarse whisper, like the wind through sandy dunes, was all the emerged. He pushed himself from the door and clambered to the stairs, ornately carved wooden spirals that led straight down to where the smell of pork was coming from. He slowly put his foot on the top step, then the next, and the next until he was at the bottom of them. It felt like it took an eternity.
Sitting on a carved table of black wood was a flagon, presumably of wine. He rushed to it and took three massive gulps. The sour red made him squint his eyes, but his throat now felt lubricated and in working order. He looked around, dark eyes scrutinizing the surroundings. Had he been captured? Or was dead? That could explain everything.
The iron pan in the fire sizzled and sputtered, and the bacon in it was blackening quickly. Water rushed to his mouth, and he pulled a hot strip straight from the pan, swearing at the pain from the heat. But it was muted enough that it was a knee-jerk reaction, and not one of actual pain. He crammed the bacon in his mouth and chewed, savoring the fatty grease as it dribbled down his chin. He could barely taste it, but that didn't matter. He could imagine the taste. That was the important part.
From behind him, he heard a shuffling. Grabbing an iron cutting knife, he spun and crouched into a defensive position. What he saw was a small girl, holding what looked like a radish. He snarled at her.
"Who are you?" If he didn't like the answer, the bacon wouldn't be the only meat that would be burned that trial.
'Make him think he's some lord now!' He could hear the jests in their voices, even in the silence. He smiled against the sunlight that hurt his eyes. In truth, it was a good prank. He was so warm and comfortable in the bed, covered with a heavy maroon blanket that trapped in the heat like a furnace. He dared not move, because when they realized he had awoken, the ruse would come to an end, and he was not ready for that. Just a few more moments of solace...
But eventually, he had to move. He shifted gingerly in the fluffy mattress, swinging an onyx-black foot over to place his bare feet on hard wood. Wherever they had moved him, he was in a house of luxury. One he didn't recognize. He pushed himself slowly to his feet. For the first time in arcs, he didn't hurt. His lower back wasn't sore, his muscles didn't ache, his head actually felt normal. It was strange, but Yri didn't feel like he'd been fighting his whole life. He felt like he lived in this lap of luxury, like he belonged in this house.
And so he proceeded to open the heavy door, which was slightly ajar. The smell of cooking meat greeted him, and he realized he was famished. The sweet scent of pork made his head swim, but he braced himself against the doorframe. What had happened? How had he come to be here? He tried to call out to Strenn, to Kalff, to Lirea even. But his voice was trapped in a throat drier than the deserts. A coarse whisper, like the wind through sandy dunes, was all the emerged. He pushed himself from the door and clambered to the stairs, ornately carved wooden spirals that led straight down to where the smell of pork was coming from. He slowly put his foot on the top step, then the next, and the next until he was at the bottom of them. It felt like it took an eternity.
Sitting on a carved table of black wood was a flagon, presumably of wine. He rushed to it and took three massive gulps. The sour red made him squint his eyes, but his throat now felt lubricated and in working order. He looked around, dark eyes scrutinizing the surroundings. Had he been captured? Or was dead? That could explain everything.
The iron pan in the fire sizzled and sputtered, and the bacon in it was blackening quickly. Water rushed to his mouth, and he pulled a hot strip straight from the pan, swearing at the pain from the heat. But it was muted enough that it was a knee-jerk reaction, and not one of actual pain. He crammed the bacon in his mouth and chewed, savoring the fatty grease as it dribbled down his chin. He could barely taste it, but that didn't matter. He could imagine the taste. That was the important part.
From behind him, he heard a shuffling. Grabbing an iron cutting knife, he spun and crouched into a defensive position. What he saw was a small girl, holding what looked like a radish. He snarled at her.
"Who are you?" If he didn't like the answer, the bacon wouldn't be the only meat that would be burned that trial.