34th of summer, 514 a.v
morning
Shahar awoke late that day, which was something he did not expect and did not particularly like. What he liked even less, however, was the dull, painful throbbing in his skull when he opened his eyes to warm light filtering through the canvas of the tent that pierced him to the bone and caused him to shut his eyes immediately.
Something told him that this was going to be a bad morning.
Actually rousing himself for the day was much, much harder than it should have been, and when he finally did slip outside he felt sore and tired and thirsty and too irritable to make an effort to interact with the others in the camp. Even across the silver cord in his heart, he sent a dull, slightly apologetic desire to be alone; he just wanted to deal with his headache right now. His hangover––that was what others called it.
He pulled his javelins onto his shoulder, like always, although the sun was already well into her daily climb and the best time for hunting had passed. Still, he had to find something today; the heat did not seem to have waned any more than it had yesterday or the day before that, and the horizon remained blue and unnervingly free of clouds. It made him uneasy.
He passed Akaidras on his way out of the camp, who nickered and bobbed his head in greeting. Shahar sighed and took a moment to greet his Strider, who in turn sensed his irritability and bumped his shoulder in something that might have been comfort. Shahar chuckled––hardly more than a silent breath of air and shake of the shoulders, but a chuckle nonetheless––and leaned into the stallion’s neck. He took a moment to just exist, letting Akaidras support him and inhaling the scent of his old friend, and when he pulled away he felt better. Not physically, but he felt a distinct drop in his level of annoyance. Patting a thank you on the Strider’s shoulder, Shahar turned and headed into the open grasses.
morning
Shahar awoke late that day, which was something he did not expect and did not particularly like. What he liked even less, however, was the dull, painful throbbing in his skull when he opened his eyes to warm light filtering through the canvas of the tent that pierced him to the bone and caused him to shut his eyes immediately.
Something told him that this was going to be a bad morning.
Actually rousing himself for the day was much, much harder than it should have been, and when he finally did slip outside he felt sore and tired and thirsty and too irritable to make an effort to interact with the others in the camp. Even across the silver cord in his heart, he sent a dull, slightly apologetic desire to be alone; he just wanted to deal with his headache right now. His hangover––that was what others called it.
He pulled his javelins onto his shoulder, like always, although the sun was already well into her daily climb and the best time for hunting had passed. Still, he had to find something today; the heat did not seem to have waned any more than it had yesterday or the day before that, and the horizon remained blue and unnervingly free of clouds. It made him uneasy.
He passed Akaidras on his way out of the camp, who nickered and bobbed his head in greeting. Shahar sighed and took a moment to greet his Strider, who in turn sensed his irritability and bumped his shoulder in something that might have been comfort. Shahar chuckled––hardly more than a silent breath of air and shake of the shoulders, but a chuckle nonetheless––and leaned into the stallion’s neck. He took a moment to just exist, letting Akaidras support him and inhaling the scent of his old friend, and when he pulled away he felt better. Not physically, but he felt a distinct drop in his level of annoyance. Patting a thank you on the Strider’s shoulder, Shahar turned and headed into the open grasses.
