1st, Winter 513
Timshel saw red pulsate behind his eyelids. Each pulse throbbed in time to the back of his head. He groaned and rolled over. It was almost midday. A rip at the entrance of his tent had allowed an angry, silver shaft of winter light to shove through and wake him. He pushed himself up.
The hole was new, he remembered. He had come in late, tripped on a guide line, and promptly fell/ripped into the middle of his tent. There, he had slept until early morning when the flapping of the loose, waxed cotton finally smacked him in the face.
What he didn't remember, though, was fixing the guideline back into place, but he must have because there it was now- taught, proud and easily visible past his new window. He could feel the cold morning air leaking in from it. He licked cracked lips. Water, he thought.
Timshel threw his blankets and bedroll to the side, searching for his waterskin. When he lifted his pillow (really, his rumpled up tunic), a rank, yellow smell reached his nose. A large, oval-shaped discoloration was on one side of the skin, with flecks of his dinner still sticking to it. Gross. He had become slovenly this past season, which concerned him, but he was more concerned that the waterskin was empty.
Timshel snatched up the floppy container and scrambled out of the tent, swaying a bit as blood rushed to his head. His horse snorted at him as he emerged.
“Shut up Jas,” he said, looking at the horse. She had been chewing at the bit, but that was his fault for not removing the bridle overnight. How long had it been since Timshel took her out for a real ride? 3 days? The horse had torn up the grass beneath their camp and was currently busying herself grinding what remained into a thick mud. The trough next to Jas looked similar. “OK, Jas, let's go get you some water,” he said.
Dressed and armed, Timshel shoved his boot into the stirrup, swung up and led Jas around the outskirts of the foreigner camp, and out toward the main city. The cold, fresh air bit against his face, but it also relieved the throbbing in the back of his head to some degree, so he didn't mind it much. Still, he had to sit tall and grip the reigns tight in order to keep a straight line. He kept the pace slow, and took a wide birth around the congestion of tents.
The colors of the tent-city were familiar to him now. First, he knew he'd see the multicolored tents of merchants both Drykas and foreigner, constantly trading goods or advertising services. Those ones spoke the common tongue the best, and he had been there often. Second, he'd see the solid-color scatterings the Drykas clans. Spots of white, red, and then blue, green, or purple. Subdivisions of shades of each personal pavillion among all of them. He knew now that the opalescent-white tents meant healing, while the clean, bright silver ones meant militant Drykas. An odd color he always thought. White stained so easily. Red would at least hide blood. But then, the crafters seemed to have already taken that color.
Timshel felt the chill air deepen. He could already smell the fresh, crisp running water up ahead. Say what you want about their poor pigment decisions, Timshel thought, the Drykas always chose excellent places to camp. Water sources were never more than a bell's ride away from town, and today a stream was only a few chimes. Jas drank deep from it, while Timshel filled and cleaned his waterskin. Then he drank as well. The water ran down his chin and seemed to make his insides shiver. It reached deep into him, into places he hadn't realized were still warm and drowsy from sleep. When he brought the nozzle down, he realized that a part of him was still a bit nauseous.
Back at camp, he tied off Jas and took stock. His blanket and bedroll still held plenty of loft, but he'd definitely have to mend his tent if he wanted to be comfortable at night. He'd need some better clothing as well. His tunic was from Eyktol for Yahal's sake! He'd noticed that the sun no longer drove away the night's chill in the grasslands, like it did back home. Instead it lingered, and when Timshel pointed it out to the Drykas, they'd told him that sometimes water itself could freeze and fall out of the sky during the winter. The thought made him shiver again.
He pulled out his coin-purse. 9 GMs 6 SMs and 95 CMs. Timshel sighed. He needed a drink.
Timshel saw red pulsate behind his eyelids. Each pulse throbbed in time to the back of his head. He groaned and rolled over. It was almost midday. A rip at the entrance of his tent had allowed an angry, silver shaft of winter light to shove through and wake him. He pushed himself up.
The hole was new, he remembered. He had come in late, tripped on a guide line, and promptly fell/ripped into the middle of his tent. There, he had slept until early morning when the flapping of the loose, waxed cotton finally smacked him in the face.
What he didn't remember, though, was fixing the guideline back into place, but he must have because there it was now- taught, proud and easily visible past his new window. He could feel the cold morning air leaking in from it. He licked cracked lips. Water, he thought.
Timshel threw his blankets and bedroll to the side, searching for his waterskin. When he lifted his pillow (really, his rumpled up tunic), a rank, yellow smell reached his nose. A large, oval-shaped discoloration was on one side of the skin, with flecks of his dinner still sticking to it. Gross. He had become slovenly this past season, which concerned him, but he was more concerned that the waterskin was empty.
Timshel snatched up the floppy container and scrambled out of the tent, swaying a bit as blood rushed to his head. His horse snorted at him as he emerged.
“Shut up Jas,” he said, looking at the horse. She had been chewing at the bit, but that was his fault for not removing the bridle overnight. How long had it been since Timshel took her out for a real ride? 3 days? The horse had torn up the grass beneath their camp and was currently busying herself grinding what remained into a thick mud. The trough next to Jas looked similar. “OK, Jas, let's go get you some water,” he said.
...
Dressed and armed, Timshel shoved his boot into the stirrup, swung up and led Jas around the outskirts of the foreigner camp, and out toward the main city. The cold, fresh air bit against his face, but it also relieved the throbbing in the back of his head to some degree, so he didn't mind it much. Still, he had to sit tall and grip the reigns tight in order to keep a straight line. He kept the pace slow, and took a wide birth around the congestion of tents.
The colors of the tent-city were familiar to him now. First, he knew he'd see the multicolored tents of merchants both Drykas and foreigner, constantly trading goods or advertising services. Those ones spoke the common tongue the best, and he had been there often. Second, he'd see the solid-color scatterings the Drykas clans. Spots of white, red, and then blue, green, or purple. Subdivisions of shades of each personal pavillion among all of them. He knew now that the opalescent-white tents meant healing, while the clean, bright silver ones meant militant Drykas. An odd color he always thought. White stained so easily. Red would at least hide blood. But then, the crafters seemed to have already taken that color.
Timshel felt the chill air deepen. He could already smell the fresh, crisp running water up ahead. Say what you want about their poor pigment decisions, Timshel thought, the Drykas always chose excellent places to camp. Water sources were never more than a bell's ride away from town, and today a stream was only a few chimes. Jas drank deep from it, while Timshel filled and cleaned his waterskin. Then he drank as well. The water ran down his chin and seemed to make his insides shiver. It reached deep into him, into places he hadn't realized were still warm and drowsy from sleep. When he brought the nozzle down, he realized that a part of him was still a bit nauseous.
...
Back at camp, he tied off Jas and took stock. His blanket and bedroll still held plenty of loft, but he'd definitely have to mend his tent if he wanted to be comfortable at night. He'd need some better clothing as well. His tunic was from Eyktol for Yahal's sake! He'd noticed that the sun no longer drove away the night's chill in the grasslands, like it did back home. Instead it lingered, and when Timshel pointed it out to the Drykas, they'd told him that sometimes water itself could freeze and fall out of the sky during the winter. The thought made him shiver again.
He pulled out his coin-purse. 9 GMs 6 SMs and 95 CMs. Timshel sighed. He needed a drink.
