Closed Stuck Between Seas (Wikus)

Timothy Mered has the misfortune of meeting Wikus in the sea of grass.

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The Wilderness of Cyphrus is an endless sea of tall grass that rolls just like the oceans themselves. Geysers kiss the sky with their steamy breath, and mysterious craters create microworlds all their own. But above all danger lives here in the tall grass in the form of fierce wild creatures; elegant serpents that swim through the land like whales through the ocean and fierce packs of glassbeaks that hunt in packs which are only kept at bay by fires. Traverse it carefully, with a guide if possible, for those that venture alone endanger themselves in countless ways.

Stuck Between Seas (Wikus)

Postby Timothy Mered on March 5th, 2016, 1:05 am

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32nd of Spring 516AV


He was lucky to be alive.

A week ago the schooner from Alvadas had set sail towards Riverfall, packed to the brim with cargo and people. All that was left of the ship now was a ruptured skeleton. Like a shark’s tooth the cliff had punctured the hull of the ship, zipping it apart. One of the masts had snapped in two, the other had toppled to the side, its sail soaking in the water. Some of the cargo had sunk, but many crates still floated in the water surrounding the ship. The same could not be said of the many passengers the schooner had harbored. Out of the two dozen, including the crew, only four had survived.

The captain, Grynt Mosey, had survived. All six foot of him, even his patchy beard. He was an old man. His ship was old, his beard was old, and all his remaining teeth were old. He possessed the breath that could only emanate from a sailor: a smell of spirits and the remains of his last meal. The means of Grynt’s survival had consisted of abandoning ship immediately after he’d steered it upon the cliffs. The weather had been rough. Too rough for the old man on his old ship. The wind had seized the sail, the sea had boiled that night. Foaming waves had crashed aboard, dragging the inattentive overboard and into dark depths. The bottle of fine rum Grynt had consumed to cure his nerves in the furious storm had not exactly helped their chances.

Indeed, Captain Grynt would've been the sole survivor if he had not delayed to fetch his most prized possessions first. But as is so often the case, Grynt’s selfish behavior came to appear as heroic. By the time he returned to the only functioning sloop it had been filled with those who hadn’t been sucked into the icy water. And so it appeared Grynt was the last living soul to abandon ship, and he mournfully assured all survivors that no others had survived the crash. It seemed unlikely, but Grynt insisted and hastily cut the sloop loose from the sinking Northstar.

Perhaps it was thanks to Grynt’s senile age that Timothy had had the fortune of coming into the man’s employment. Not that the Northstar needed a cabin boy. What it needed was actual sailors, new sails, repairs, and a thorough scrubbing.

Instead, the Northstar sailed with a quartermaster who was blind in one eye and deaf in the other ear. It sailed with a band of squabbling sailors whose sole purpose in live seemed to be to live as long as possible while doing as little as possible. It was a miracle the ship even sailed, Timothy thought. Not why, but how. The why was easily answered: shipping whatever and whoever at the lowest prices in the land without questions appealed to the poor and unsavory types. The how was a more elusive question. With nothing but fraying ropes, tattered sails, and a hull colored bright green from rot and moss on the outside The Northstar looked more like an oversized raft than a Schooner.

Now, ripped apart by the cliffs, it looked not even like a raft. If anything, it resembled the handful of survivors. Scattered, floating around aimlessly, yet remaining. The sun had just re-emerged, casting a shy light upon shivering bones.

Timothy hugged his knees even closer to his chest. The sailor’s clothes he’d bought to make a good impression on Grynt when he’d been granted employment were still soaking wet. The dark blue and white stripes clung to his skin same as the sand had glued itself onto his clothes.

“Boy!”

The booming voice was the only respectable captain-like trait Grynt had left in his old body.

Timothy glanced up. Grynt stood up to his knees in the water, sorting through whatever came drifting his way. “Come help sort this out!”

Although Timothy no longer considered himself to be in Grynt’s employment, as there was no more ship left to be employed upon, but he obeyed the commanding voice regardless. Tired, cold, and with little else to do, Timothy carried himself to the shore.

“See if there’s anything useful in there,” Grynt pushed a small crate through the water towards the coast. Sighing, Timothy marched knee-deep into the icy water and lifted the crate up to carry it ashore. With nothing else to pry the crate open, he resorted to bashing the wooden cube with a stray rock until the wood gave away. As soon as it did, he instantly covered his mouth and nose with both hands. A putrid stench wafted towards him. He did not even care to look what was inside as he tossed the useless crate aside.

They continued rummaging through the left-overs until the sun started to set. Much to the joy of the third surviving sailor, a lanky man-child called Sep, a crate of cheap ale had come through unscathed. Later, Timothy uncovered a crate of dried meat and fruit, though half of it had been spoiled by the water. Happy though he was to have something to chew on, Timothy was bright enough to realize that there would not be enough for four to last even a week. Their two most prized possessions now were the tinderbox Grynt had found and the sloop.

As twilight emerged, Judy, the fourth and quietest of the survivors had managed a small fire, though it was more smoke than flame.

“I say we check what we got and take the sloop,” Sep said.

“You want to row all the way to Riverfall?” Grynt snapped back.

“I’d rather not be caught by a glassbeak.”

“I’d rather not drown. Much less starve on a boat with you lot for company.”

Timothy frowned. “Why don’t we just go by land?” He asked in a husky voice. It was growing colder by the bell and he’d resorted to sitting as closely to the flames as possible without setting himself on fire.

“Are you daft?!” Judy spat out. She was rather short, frail and sickly looking with her always moist eyes and pale complexion. “That’d be the fastest way to get yourself killed.”

"If the monsters don't kill ya, the bandits will," Sep added. "It's crawling with 'em here. Nasty people that'll strip ya naked and skin ya alive."

Timothy shivered.

"I'd be more worried about the wild animals," Judy said as she poked the fire. "Bandits stalk the grass, aye, but they're looking for large caravans, not a few stranded queers."

"Agh!" Grynt waved his hand dismissively. "What do you know 'bout bandits woman! Ey?"

Judy gave the disheveled captain a hard stare but said nothing. Their conversation continued in the same vain for a while before sleep washed over them. Judy remained at the fire and kept guard. Sep fell asleep almost immediately, while Grynt nid-nodded until he too succumbed to sleep. But cabin boy Timothy of the Northstar remained firmly awake. His heartbeat drummed through the ground back into his ear. The cold was unbearable, the hard soil even more so, but worst of all were the ominous little sounds that ocassionaly broke the quiet of the night.

Long after the fire had died down, Timothy finally dozed off, only to awake a few bells later feeling the strong need to pee. Without a whisper he stood up and ventured away from the glowing remains of the fire. Judy, it seemed, had fallen asleep too. He walked across the beach over a dune, and relieved his bladder behind a line of reed. When he had finished up and was about to return, he saw it. A shadow occluded the faint glow of the fire. There was movement. Panicked movement. A muffled scream. Then silence.

Timothy ducked into a crouch and squinted his eyes. He couldn't make out a form, but he could see the movement. A figure stepped across the fire, lowered itself and leapt atop a shadowy clump. Again a muffled cry briefly ripped the night sky. Timothy ducked to the ground, his wet tunic gluing itself to the loose sand.

He was lucky to be alive.

For the longest while only the wind rustling through dried grass and tall reed sounded. But just when Timothy started to think he'd imagined the dual murder, he heard a splash.

The sloop! He needn't peer over the edge of the dune to guess what was going on down the beach. Nor did he dare to.

No matter the cold, no matter the stiffness in his limbs and the aching of his bones. Timothy remained hidden behind the cover of the dunes until first light hit the beach. Exhausted, but no less determined, he edged ever so slowly out of cover.

It was as he'd feared. The sloop was gone. Grynt and Sep rested near the fire, their bodies motionless. There was no sign of Judy, nor any of the supplies they had scavenged the day before.

He remained hidden a while longer until he could no longer ignore the growl in his stomach. Aside from a curious seagull or two, nothing at all had come near the still bodies of Captain Grynt and sailor Sep. And so Timothy mustered all his courage and stepped out of hiding, one hand clutching his stomach while the other covered his mouth.

Nothing could quite prepare him for what he saw next. As a Sunberthian, he'd seen his fair share of death. But never in this way. The throats of Grynt and Sep had been clinically sliced. Their eyes were still open, expressing a mixture of shock and horror. Aside from those two things however, the rested exactly where they'd gone to sleep.

A fat lump welled up in the pit of his stomach and rose to his throat were it remained firmly stuck. Timothy dropped to his knees near the fire. He wished the unthinkable. He wished he'd been killed. For aside from the two bodies, nothing else remained. The dead bodies had been stripped clean, and not even a piece of rope had been left behind on the beach. If he hadn't gone for a wee in the middle of the night, Judy would've certainly killed him too. Technically, she had. Only his death would be a long, slow, and painful one. Stuck as he was on a beach without any supplies, save for the useless money in his pouch. On both sides the seas loomed, waiting patiently for him to drop dead.

But he did not give up. He refused to stop breathing, and he hadn't the courage to drown himself. Only one choice remained. Cold, hungry, and deeply betrayed, Timothy picked himself up and wandered aimlessly into the sea of grass, mumbling prayers to Yahal under his breath. He did not want to die like this! He didn't want to die namelessly and alone, without the world ever knowing or caring he'd been around. Yahal, if you guide me through this, I pledge my life to your service. I will do whatever it takes to rid the world of traitors. I will do whatever it takes to cure the world of greed and selfishness. I swear upon my heart I will never forsake the helpless, I will never neglect the hungry, I will never turn my back on the sick. If you guide me through this I will make every tick I breath amount to something. Please, Yahal, hear me.

Sooner than he expected, his prayer was answered. Just a bell before midday he heard the distant clopping of hooves. A caravan? No. It sounded like a single horse. Or perhaps a pony.

Like on a trail of scent he dogged the sound, pausing only to relocate and reorient until finally, near twilight, it muted. His heart jumped to his throat. Whoever travelled there had halted. It was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he could catch up. A curse because he could no longer tell where the traveller was. He stalked the tall grass in the last known position, praying for the best. A light headache had set in. His lips were dry and starting to crack, his throat felt sore and his feet numb. But worst of all was the ravenous hunger. It was a too familiar feeling, although he'd never experienced it so intensly before. Yet, he endured. Then, quite suddenly, a plume of smoke billowed on the horizon. He was saved!

With his last remaining strength, Timothy pushed onward until he stumbled like a drunk unto a small clearing. His sailor's uniform and half his face was caked with sand. It lingered in his hair too, and in his ears, and in his boots, and under his fingernails. In fact it was everywhere, scrubbing his skin relentlessly.

There was a fire, a man, and a donkey. Out of all these unexpected, misplaced, mismatched things, the donkey looked the most comfortable and the least surprised. The fire flared up momentarily but quickly regained its usual composure. Most surprised was the man, or mountain, or bear, or man-bear-mountain who bore a rather prepossessing appearance. He looked like everything that Timothy wasn't. Tall, strong, tanned, tattooed, bearded, and healthy.

But Timothy cared for one thing only. And he uttered his desire in a feeble, husky voice as he dropped to his knees. "Food...please..."

OOCNote to self & grader: some items (sailor's outfit, food) were purchased by Timothy in Alvadas. I'll have to do a solo thread in early spring in Alvadas in which this actually happens and withdraw the proper amount from my ledger
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Stuck Between Seas (Wikus)

Postby Wikus on March 5th, 2016, 3:08 pm

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It was somewhat comforting to return to his natural habitat. Staying in a city, under a proper roof and with walls there to protect was a nice little fantasy he had lived for two entire seasons. All for nothing, really. He had lost almost all of his money, and he had felt more in danger in the city than the wilderness itself. It was ironic, really. Nobody was dumb enough to choose the wilderness to travel, least to live. He didn’t have a choice in the matter, none whatsoever. At least, in the wilderness he didn’t have to hide and he could be what he was, the survivor that had made it this far despite being having spent his whole life alone. So many winters behind him that his limited counting ability was unable to keep track, many more than any of from his same generation. They all died on the way, some younger and some older, but nobody made it as long as he had. It wasn’t so dumb when it was thought so wild, for if one had the skill, then nobody could really brand him an idiot.

The night was soon to fall, yet the fire was already started. Setting up the camp for the night was perhaps one of the most critical situations one had to tackle in the plains. Wikus had made sure to scout around his position, for the general rule was to set camp in the clearest section possible. There had to be enough space and visibility for the donkey to act as the scout, while avoiding any bodies of water. Water attracted life, and life was never quite friendly – not on the roads. With that present, the small clearing was the chosen spot, roughly two miles away from the Kabrin Road to avoid any possible encounters with humanity. His current tasks were divided in three parts, which at first could easily be confused for a lack of organization in the man. The first task was feeding the fire with the dried grass and the few bushes he had managed to scavenge on the road. Trees were rare and wood was almost inaccessible, thus always a constant struggle to come across. Fire was, of course, the most important piece of an encampment. While it brought heat and comfort, it also could attract unwanted attention from humanity. Without it, it would attract the wildlife. The pros and cons of the fire had to be weighted each time, always.

The second task was the rising of his tent, which he had partially raised, now placing the camouflage tarp over it as tightly as he could, even if the tent itself was partially squished in between. The tarp served as a second layer of protection against predators, partially hiding his smell and heat and also protecting against any possible scratches that wished to make his way inside to devour him. It wasn’t paranoia, it was survival. The donkey was tied with rope to the wagon, while the wagon’s wheels were trapped in holes Wikus had dug with his bare hands to avoid the donkey dragging it away. Pulling the tarp downwards as much as its limited elasticity allowed, Wikus would go on his fours to trap it with his body weight and avoid it the tight press against the tent to fade. A light whistle was directed to the donkey, tapping the tarp, Oi obeying the signal and moving to Wikus before he laid on the tarp, effectively trapping it below. Now, he had two methods of alarm if the encampment was to be attacked by predators. The first one would be the donkey, who would bray whenever he spotted any sort of predator. The second would be the donkey standing up and sending the tarp to backlash against the tent, which would violently shake.

The third task was exercise. He could not allow his body to fall into slumber, no matter if day or night. The poor ingest plus his elevated metabolism due to his height didn’t allow him to do so. Eating thrice a day would eventually cost him his strengths, as his body would turn lazy and thus less effective in terms of survival. Eating constant small meals and remaining active would boost the metabolism and provide him strength, even if logic would try to disagree. Moving to the fire and crouching, he took another worm and devoured it with his new teeth, courtesy of Kavala. Delicious or not, he couldn’t permit himself another one without exercising. Falling sideways on the ground, he would roll to the left for a few feet, then back to the right while trying not to land on the fire. The moderately acrobatic activity would serve him not only to fuel his body into activity, but also to etch the smells of the land onto his stark body, thus camouflaging his smell. Survival was as much madness as it was art.

“Food… please…”


The words were like an arrow in his chest, interrupting absolutely everything in his mind and body. His eyes, proper of a wilding, rose from the ground with ferocity towards the direction of the voice. A boy? This was a trap, an obvious trap he had fallen for before. There wasn’t any time to ask questions, as instead Wikus rose to his feet with utmost hurry. He didn’t make his way to the boy, but instead only his whip that laid by the fire and headed to the wagon, climbing it with a clumsy hurry and standing as tall as he could. There, he froze, eyes wide as he listened and watched. Scouting was perhaps one of the most important tasks of traveling, yet at dusk it was almost impossible. Instead, he focused on slowly turning his head in attempts of spotting movement or sound, even if the boy was on his knees as if about to fall dead. Only the sounds of the gusts of wind were there with the occasional animal noise, yet nothing nearby. The motions of the glass were uniform and fluid, thus nothing hiding in the immediate vicinity. From where the boy came there was a trail in the grass, a mistake common of an initiated in the art of survival. Wikus would have scouted around for the lower grass to at least avoid the big and obvious signs of someone passing through.

Now that he was certain, he jumped down from the wagon, landing with his knees slightly bent to avoid any damage to his joints, quickly making a run towards the weakened boy with the ferocity expected from a naked, tattooed giant in the wild. Before he reached him, he shifted his weight back as his feet slid on the grass, leaving him at the optimal distance for his two arms to reach and take a hold of the boy by his bodice. Boy or not, Wikus would attempt to jerk harshly, his body spinning by the hip, pressing the boy against the side of his hip to create leverage. The wrestling throw, if successful, would send the boy’s back harshly against the grass and quite possibly drain his lungs of air. “Alone?” Wikus would whisper, a high contrast being made between his loud actions and soft voice. “Others?” His blue eyes, as wide as ferocious, stared directly into the boy’s as he spoke, applying pressure on the boy’s body if he was pinned to the ground.




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Stuck Between Seas (Wikus)

Postby Timothy Mered on March 5th, 2016, 4:57 pm

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32nd Spring 516Av

He’d expected some surprise, perhaps shock even. But he could not in a thousand years have foreseen the violent reaction that unfolded before his eyes. Like a screeching housewife fleeing from a mouse the tall man leapt atop his cart, whip in hand. Timothy blinked sheepishly. The whip was the only thing the man had on him, and if hell’s hammers weren’t pounding away at his head he would’ve had a laughing fit at the absurdity of the situation. Instead, Timothy raised his hands in reflex to shield himself from the inevitable lash.

A lash that never came. The only thing whipping at him was the wind. The only sound an almost comical bray from the donkey. And the only other person in the godforsaken Sea of Grass came charging at him. Well over a hundred-fifty pounds of man and muscle stampeded towards him. Hands the size of hooves seized his shirt. As he was plucked of the ground, there was no question in Timothy’s mind that the man could’ve just as well slung him all the way back into the sea, if he so desired.

With a smack he crashed into the ground. His spine recoiled. All the little joints shifted, then painfully snapped back into place, one by one. He gasped for air. The soil seemed to spin and tilt violently, as if he was about to roll off the edge of the world. The only constant in his vision was a face. The face of a travelled man. Rugged, harsh, and very bearded. Piercing blue eyes bore into him, demanding immediate answers. He saw the man’s mouth move. He heard the words come out, but they didn’t register.

When they did, after a few ticks, he nodded fiercely. “It’s j-just me,” he managed to squeeze out. “No one else,” he added with a little more confidence. It took almost ten full ticks before he even started to try and slither away. But the man had him pinned down. “Please, I’m stuck out here. I mean no harm…”

Even if he did, he was in no position to commit the wildling hurt. He had no weapon but his fists, and his fists wouldn’t even dent an average adult, let alone someone as fierce as his captor. He ceased his efforts to try and wriggle himself loose from underneath the man’s knee and rested his arms to the side in complete surrender.

A thought emerged in the back of his mind. Perhaps the man didn’t quite understand him. His voice had sounded…off. “Fff-ood,” Timothy wheezed. “Wat-er.”
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Stuck Between Seas (Wikus)

Postby Wikus on March 5th, 2016, 10:14 pm

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Without patience he waited, listening to the boy’s words as if expecting to find an answer for existence itself. Obviously, that answer did not came from the boy’s lips, and instead pathetic and weak words made their way to Wikus’ ears. The more he watched, the less pressure he applied on the kid and perhaps the more he started believing his words. His trail was clumsy and easy to follow, his condition was obviously not faked, and whatever company the boy had was long gone. A kid, alone, so far away from a city or anyone other than Wikus himself. Despite his utter hatred towards children in general, he was inevitably convinced that he couldn’t just let this boy die. If he kicked him out, the boy would be devoured. The worry was not for the boy’s safety, but for his own. If predators found feed, they would keep searching the same area for more as self-preservation ran deep into all creatures. For that very reason, he had to think of his own safety before the child’s, and that meant sharing his limited resources with this stray dog that had drug itself onto his encampment. He didn’t have to be happy about it, though.

Standing up while still keeping his grip on the weak body, he’d drag the kid through the grass with some effort, heading towards the gentle fire that shined in the middle of the clearing. Letting him down a few feet away from the fire with the same abrupt and unannounced harshness he possessed, Wikus would reach nearby towards his water skin, full with the freshest water he could find on his sojourn of this day. Opening the small cap that laid on top, he would raise it… and drink. Self-preservation was always first. The water fell greatly in his mouth, part of it even spilling on his beard, yet still more focused on satiating his own thirst rather than helping the lad. Once he had enough, he’d close the cap and drop it on the boy’s chest before making his way to the wagon. Climbing up, he’d stand tall once more and scout the darkness, begging not to spot anything suspicious which thankfully he did not. He remained a full chime like this, before returning onto the frenetic work of his evening. In the wagon a blanket was perfectly folded, a bit tainted with stains of unknown origins but still dry and warm. Moving back by the boy, he’d drop it on top without really caring if it landed on the boy’s face or feet. He didn’t care.

He witnessed something shocking now – his worms had escaped the small piece of cloth and were spreading through the soil. The fire was pretty near, so he had a source of light that allowed him to witness this. Panicking, he went to his knees and began picking the few he could find and shoving them in his mouth. They tasted like gelatinous strings of dirt, and while nothing impressive it still aided him in fighting hunger despite the small prize he had managed to hunt this morning. Five, six… the rest were all gone. It was the kid’s fault, because otherwise he had them under constant vigilance. Now they had buried themselves in the soil and thus away from his stomach. Grunting, he’d glance at the kid. Finally, he disposed of his whip by rolling it quickly and leaving it by the donkey, whom watched without much interest. That was the issue of this donkey alarm. He would bray his lungs out if he spotted a predator, but a boy, man or woman would be irrelevant to the damn animal. No matter how useless he was in those matters, the donkey was his preferred company. At least he didn’t demand food or water, not like this leech that sucked from his resources and his morality.

A few feet away laid a small fur bag Wikus approached, unwrapping said back and proving that what was thought as a bag was instead the hide of a hare. Its guts were long gone, having disposed of them the moment he hunted it, afterwards having skinned it and stored it in its own hide for transport. Moving back to his wagon, he retrieved one of the many sticks he had harvested from Riverfall in order to have a supply as the Sea of Grass was quite bare of trees. Using the same one as yesterday, he’d shove the stick through the skinned hare’s rear up until it came by the creature’s neck. Finally, he’d return to the fire and place the meal on the fire, making sure the flames to not touch the meat but instead only the heat did. He didn’t pay much attention to the meat itself, instead watching at the boy he was now forced to watch over. It was his youth all over again, dealing with annoying children instead of focusing on himself.

Using one of his dirty feet, he’d poke the child and hand him the stick, showing with his head towards the fire and basically demanding for the boy to take over the task. Meanwhile, the man left for the wagon to retrieve his pants. Despite his apparent lack of organization, and the lack of anything precisely made to store all the items he carried, the wagon held a great deal of items for diverse situations. Inside it, there was an obvious mess of those items, yet it still wasn’t defined as unorganized as Wikus knew where each of the items laid. After some digging, he found his old harem pants which he had barely used the past season, now putting them on and finding that, as usual, they were far too loose. Bringing them up to cover his bellybutton, he’d pull on the hip’s fabric and would tie a knot that would serve to tighten them around his waist and avoid them falling down as they usually did. First, his water. Then, his worms. Now, the boy forced him to wear pants. This was one of the worst days he had had since he left Riverfall.



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Stuck Between Seas (Wikus)

Postby Timothy Mered on March 19th, 2016, 9:47 pm

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Timothy clenched his teeth as the barbarian dragged him over to the fire. Loose stones cut through his tunic, the rough soil scraped at his back. But the only sound that escaped him was a grunt when Wikus dropped him near the fire. The man was no friend. For a tick, Timothy thought that perhaps he would soon be hanging over that fire, seasoned and all. But not even that terrifying thought could kick his limbs into action. He simply remained where Wikus had left him. Exhausted.
Then he heard it. The sound of a cork being popped loose. The sloshing of water in a water skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, and cupped his ears with his hands. This was a special kind of torture. But he lacked the courage and strength to leap up and seize the water from Wikus’ hands.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to. As soon as the waterskin plopped down on his belly, he shot up, undid the cap and poured the divine liquid down his throat. Moments later, when his thirst had been quenched, something else came down upon him. A blanket. Timothy clutched the dry cloth to his chest and backed away. Initially out of fear that the barbarian might change his mind, but then because he felt something wriggling at his chest. He jumped up and dropped the blanket. From it, worms, bugs, spiders and other small insects emerged, scurrying away in all directions.

Down on all fours, the filthy bearded half-wit chased like a madman after the helpless creatures, shoveling them into his maw. Timothy’s hands clasped his mouth. Had he had but a crumb in his belly, it surely would’ve come out. He met the wildling’s hungry gaze, and backed away even further. He was now certain that he would be next on the meal.

But the worm did seize him and skin him alive. Instead, he was given but a passing glance before the man pulled yet another surprise, this time in the form of a perfectly skinned hare. Timothy’s mouth started to water, and he plonked back down again, relieved. A harsh kick into his side alerted him to the wildling’s command. He was to roast the hare. “I- I don’t know how to cook…” he protested weakly, though he doubted the Drykas understood even a single word. At least he found some pants. Not that it made much of a difference, for he looked equally rugged and filthy as he had before. Not taking any chances, Timothy kept his gaze mostly on the fire and rotated the meat over the flames. It smelled good, but he didn’t yet dare hope he would get even a bite of the tender meat.

Perhaps he had a chance. The cart near the donkey was full of stuff. More than enough supplies to last for a good while out in the wilderness. He considered repeating history and stealing away the man’s property under the cover of night. But then he would lose whatever protection the madman could offer against thugs and other, wilder things. For now, he would wait and assess his options.

“I’m,” he started, “I’m Timoth- Timothy.” The man’s frightening display of insanity had put a stutter in his voice, and he said nothing more, fearing that anything else might upset the barbaric creature.
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