|.41 Summer, 514
"Move, you stubborn ass!"
The raising and training of horses was not an occupation that Zhol had ever regarded as particularly glamorous, per se: in Endrykas it was as common as breathing; here in Wind Reach the beasts would always be considered inferior to the Inarta's airborne mounts; and it was hard to romanticise any career that at any point involved shovelling the waste of another living creature. Even so, there was something about the colts and mares and stallions that for Zhol at least set his work at the stables apart from the alternatives: something about the wind on his face as he rode; the sense of fulfilment as a disobedient steed finally succumbed to his training efforts; the compliance of a mount whose respect he had earned. Perhaps the glamour was an illusion, but for Zhol it felt worthwhile; as if he were contributing in some useful, albeit small way.
Except today, of course.
Wind Reach differed from Endrykas in many ways, most of them immediately obvious at even the most casual glance. But once the canvas was peeled back, a whole pavilion of more subtle differences were revealed, and some could not even be seen until you moved past the initial obstacles blocking your perception. The one that Zhol struggled with the most - today especially - was the difference between the steeds of Wind Reach, and the striders of Endrykas.
Striders were gorgeous creatures, the very height and epitome of a riding animal, carved by the gods to be swift, strong, and ellegant. They were powerful, and intimidating, but they were also intelligent, loyal, and bore themselves with a certain nobility. They were more than merely vehicles, too: they were trusted and loyal companions, as much a part of the family as any other brother in arms. Perhaps certain breeders might argue otherwise, but for anyone born in Endrykas, or anyone with even the faintest affinity for Drykas culture, there was no better mount in all the world.
None of that was true of the horses that graced the Skyhigh Stables. The Inarta had no need for swift stallions that could thunder across open plains faster than the winds themselves; such terrain lay beyond the realms in which the Inarta left, and by and large they had no particular desire to travel beyond. The warren of caves that wove through the Inarta's volcanic home were best navigated on foot, and most Inarta could live their lives safely within with no need to journey the kind of distances where a mount would aid them. Those who did leave Wind Reach to hunt or patrol usually did so on foot or by eagle; and when they did require equine assistance on their travels, it was not for swiftness but as a beast of burden. Thus, most the mounts which Wind Reach owned for itself were strong, stocky, and slow, bred to pull and to carry heavy loads over steep terrain at paces so slow that for Zhol it felt like travelling backwards. Left to his own devices, Zhol would much rather spend his days caring for the handful of swift horses that the stables did own - mostly for breeding and sale, rather than explicit use, of course - but the needs of Wind Reach demanded otherwise.
All of that had led to this moment: to this battle of wills against one of Wind Reach's pack mules, trying in vain to spur it into motion while it merely stood and stared blankly at his efforts. Zhol's frustration with the creature was palpable. His words had long ago shifted to common, in the hopes that the pack animal might respond more favourably; he'd even tried to muster a few words of Nari, but to no avail. He had pulled, pushed, herded, coerced, enticed, encouraged, and outright pleaded to try and compel the mule into compliance, but it stubbornly refused to leave it's stall. Weariness now sagged Zhol's shoulders; he doubted his efforts had taken the hours that it felt like they had, but every minute that passed was a disruption to the intricate mechanism of Inarta life. One of the few true purposes of beasts like this mule was to help carry loads to and from the depths of Wind Reach, where food was grown and resources mined. The gardens accepted waste and refuse from the stables and the commonrooms, and sent back food for the kitchens and the lichen and moss that covered the stable floors in lieu of more valuable and scarce straw. It was for that purpose that this mule usually trudged through Skyinarta's tunnels, weighed down by those loads; and it was that task that was in jeopardy if this mule continued to refuse to work. For now, the Inarta were working the mule's cousins harder to compensate; but the harder they worked, the more weary and in danger of injury they would become; Wind Reach could not afford to have it's pack animals refusing to pull their weight for long.
Zhol sighed and surrendered, releasing the rope that was knotted crudely to the mule's bit and bridle, and slumped against the framework of it's stall. He was tired, and not just because of his efforts thus far this morning; it had been yet another in a line of long and sleepless nights, plagued by misplaced guilt and unpleasant dreams; bad enough to make the prospect of curling up on the uncleaned stable floor not an entirely unappealing prospect. The mule could sense that, no doubt: perceive his frustration and fatigue as a weakness in Zhol's resolve that it's stubbornness could exploit.
With as much effort as he could summon, Zhol tried to muster fresh eyes in his skull, to reconsider the situation from the beginning. It had begun hours ago, when the Dek had arrived to bring the mule to the tunnels for work, and it had refused. With his usual youthful swagger and false confidence, Zhol had assured Hansi that he would take care of the problem with ease, and so had been left to his own devices; and yet here he still was, success seemingly beyond his reach. He had done everything he could think of to soothe and reassure the mule. He had searched for wounds that might explain why it bucked every time someone tried to attach his pannier, but there were none of the tell-tale scuffs and scrapes that might suggest the mule had damaged itself on one of the tunnel walls; he'd even gone so far as to check the mule's ankles for snake bites based on a half-recalled childhood memory, but there was no external indication of what might be at fault. There were no signs of dehydration or fever, and the mule had been all too happy to eat; and there was nothing amidst the lichen and manure on the floor of it's stall to suggest any kind of internal upset. There was no discolouration of the skin, no threadbare patches of fur, no obvious agitation or other odd behaviour. Zhol was at a complete loss: the mule seemed entirely fine, except for the fact that it clearly was not.
Frustration clogged his mind as he ground the heel of his hand into his shoulder, still giving him grief from the tumble he'd taken days ago. The healers had insisted he rest it to allow time for it to heal; advice which he had of course completely ignored. It was only pain after all, and the discomfort he had to endure on the rare occasions where he couldn't get by favouring the other arm were a small price to pay to avoid making a fuss. It was foolish perhaps to suffer in silence, particularly when doing so risked making an injury worse; but when the alternative was causing inconvenience to others, Zhol's neuroses insisted he put up with the pain instead.
Zhol frowned, once again applying pressure to his shoulder. A spike of pain shot towards his head, but a split second later it began to subside, the pressure offering blessed relief from the dull ache. He cocked his head to the side, gaze scrutinising the mule's flank. Carefully he stepped over, a hand resting against the mule's back while the other applied gentle but firm pressure to it's skin, working it's way slowly from joint to joint down the mule's thigh. As the hand approached it's hip, Zhol could feel the tension in it's muscles slowly begin to build, rippling into a flinch as it strayed a little too close for comfort. Soothing sounds tumbled from Zhol's throat as he kept his hand still, resting over the area just behind where the pannier would normally rest. The mule's breaths panted out in short, clipped bursts, but gradually slowed and eased as Zhol kept the pressure constant. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "This is the problem, isn't it?"
More careful probing traced the outline of the injury: not an obvious wound or a sprain, but rather a defensive cluster of inflammation, no doubt caused by a stumbled step or a poorly secured pannier that must have seemed too minor at the time for the Dek to even realise it had happened. Like Zhol's own injury, it would heal on it's own in time; but while he could favour the other shoulder, the mule hadn't been given that option.
Zhol abandoned the stall, and roamed the stables gathering the medicinal supplies he needed. A few leaves and herbs that Zhol recognised by shape, having already forgotten the Nari names he'd been taught to associate with them; a stone pestle; a few drops of alcohol from the supposedly hidden flask that almost everyone knew was there. Slowly, the ingredients came together, ground into a viscous paste that smelt far more appetising than it probably was. He returned to the stall, makeshift analgesic in hand, and held the substance close enough for the mule to take a cursory sniff. It seemed unconvinced; Zhol injected as much reassurance into his words as he could muster. "It will help. Trust me."
The mule flinched in reluctance as Zhol began to smear the paste onto it's flank and massage it into the tissue, but within a few moments it's protests subsided, the same soothing numbness creeping into it's flesh as was currently robbing Zhol's fingertips of feeling. He felt the numbness transform into warmth, as the paste drew the heat away from the tendons and muscles, the pain gradually ushered away in it's wake. The mule fidgeted, but with far less vigour than before. A snort that almost sounded like reluctant gratitude tumbled from it's muzzle. Zhol took it as such. "You're welcome," he replied, with a satisfied smile.
The raising and training of horses was not an occupation that Zhol had ever regarded as particularly glamorous, per se: in Endrykas it was as common as breathing; here in Wind Reach the beasts would always be considered inferior to the Inarta's airborne mounts; and it was hard to romanticise any career that at any point involved shovelling the waste of another living creature. Even so, there was something about the colts and mares and stallions that for Zhol at least set his work at the stables apart from the alternatives: something about the wind on his face as he rode; the sense of fulfilment as a disobedient steed finally succumbed to his training efforts; the compliance of a mount whose respect he had earned. Perhaps the glamour was an illusion, but for Zhol it felt worthwhile; as if he were contributing in some useful, albeit small way.
Except today, of course.
Wind Reach differed from Endrykas in many ways, most of them immediately obvious at even the most casual glance. But once the canvas was peeled back, a whole pavilion of more subtle differences were revealed, and some could not even be seen until you moved past the initial obstacles blocking your perception. The one that Zhol struggled with the most - today especially - was the difference between the steeds of Wind Reach, and the striders of Endrykas.
Striders were gorgeous creatures, the very height and epitome of a riding animal, carved by the gods to be swift, strong, and ellegant. They were powerful, and intimidating, but they were also intelligent, loyal, and bore themselves with a certain nobility. They were more than merely vehicles, too: they were trusted and loyal companions, as much a part of the family as any other brother in arms. Perhaps certain breeders might argue otherwise, but for anyone born in Endrykas, or anyone with even the faintest affinity for Drykas culture, there was no better mount in all the world.
None of that was true of the horses that graced the Skyhigh Stables. The Inarta had no need for swift stallions that could thunder across open plains faster than the winds themselves; such terrain lay beyond the realms in which the Inarta left, and by and large they had no particular desire to travel beyond. The warren of caves that wove through the Inarta's volcanic home were best navigated on foot, and most Inarta could live their lives safely within with no need to journey the kind of distances where a mount would aid them. Those who did leave Wind Reach to hunt or patrol usually did so on foot or by eagle; and when they did require equine assistance on their travels, it was not for swiftness but as a beast of burden. Thus, most the mounts which Wind Reach owned for itself were strong, stocky, and slow, bred to pull and to carry heavy loads over steep terrain at paces so slow that for Zhol it felt like travelling backwards. Left to his own devices, Zhol would much rather spend his days caring for the handful of swift horses that the stables did own - mostly for breeding and sale, rather than explicit use, of course - but the needs of Wind Reach demanded otherwise.
All of that had led to this moment: to this battle of wills against one of Wind Reach's pack mules, trying in vain to spur it into motion while it merely stood and stared blankly at his efforts. Zhol's frustration with the creature was palpable. His words had long ago shifted to common, in the hopes that the pack animal might respond more favourably; he'd even tried to muster a few words of Nari, but to no avail. He had pulled, pushed, herded, coerced, enticed, encouraged, and outright pleaded to try and compel the mule into compliance, but it stubbornly refused to leave it's stall. Weariness now sagged Zhol's shoulders; he doubted his efforts had taken the hours that it felt like they had, but every minute that passed was a disruption to the intricate mechanism of Inarta life. One of the few true purposes of beasts like this mule was to help carry loads to and from the depths of Wind Reach, where food was grown and resources mined. The gardens accepted waste and refuse from the stables and the commonrooms, and sent back food for the kitchens and the lichen and moss that covered the stable floors in lieu of more valuable and scarce straw. It was for that purpose that this mule usually trudged through Skyinarta's tunnels, weighed down by those loads; and it was that task that was in jeopardy if this mule continued to refuse to work. For now, the Inarta were working the mule's cousins harder to compensate; but the harder they worked, the more weary and in danger of injury they would become; Wind Reach could not afford to have it's pack animals refusing to pull their weight for long.
Zhol sighed and surrendered, releasing the rope that was knotted crudely to the mule's bit and bridle, and slumped against the framework of it's stall. He was tired, and not just because of his efforts thus far this morning; it had been yet another in a line of long and sleepless nights, plagued by misplaced guilt and unpleasant dreams; bad enough to make the prospect of curling up on the uncleaned stable floor not an entirely unappealing prospect. The mule could sense that, no doubt: perceive his frustration and fatigue as a weakness in Zhol's resolve that it's stubbornness could exploit.
With as much effort as he could summon, Zhol tried to muster fresh eyes in his skull, to reconsider the situation from the beginning. It had begun hours ago, when the Dek had arrived to bring the mule to the tunnels for work, and it had refused. With his usual youthful swagger and false confidence, Zhol had assured Hansi that he would take care of the problem with ease, and so had been left to his own devices; and yet here he still was, success seemingly beyond his reach. He had done everything he could think of to soothe and reassure the mule. He had searched for wounds that might explain why it bucked every time someone tried to attach his pannier, but there were none of the tell-tale scuffs and scrapes that might suggest the mule had damaged itself on one of the tunnel walls; he'd even gone so far as to check the mule's ankles for snake bites based on a half-recalled childhood memory, but there was no external indication of what might be at fault. There were no signs of dehydration or fever, and the mule had been all too happy to eat; and there was nothing amidst the lichen and manure on the floor of it's stall to suggest any kind of internal upset. There was no discolouration of the skin, no threadbare patches of fur, no obvious agitation or other odd behaviour. Zhol was at a complete loss: the mule seemed entirely fine, except for the fact that it clearly was not.
Frustration clogged his mind as he ground the heel of his hand into his shoulder, still giving him grief from the tumble he'd taken days ago. The healers had insisted he rest it to allow time for it to heal; advice which he had of course completely ignored. It was only pain after all, and the discomfort he had to endure on the rare occasions where he couldn't get by favouring the other arm were a small price to pay to avoid making a fuss. It was foolish perhaps to suffer in silence, particularly when doing so risked making an injury worse; but when the alternative was causing inconvenience to others, Zhol's neuroses insisted he put up with the pain instead.
Zhol frowned, once again applying pressure to his shoulder. A spike of pain shot towards his head, but a split second later it began to subside, the pressure offering blessed relief from the dull ache. He cocked his head to the side, gaze scrutinising the mule's flank. Carefully he stepped over, a hand resting against the mule's back while the other applied gentle but firm pressure to it's skin, working it's way slowly from joint to joint down the mule's thigh. As the hand approached it's hip, Zhol could feel the tension in it's muscles slowly begin to build, rippling into a flinch as it strayed a little too close for comfort. Soothing sounds tumbled from Zhol's throat as he kept his hand still, resting over the area just behind where the pannier would normally rest. The mule's breaths panted out in short, clipped bursts, but gradually slowed and eased as Zhol kept the pressure constant. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "This is the problem, isn't it?"
More careful probing traced the outline of the injury: not an obvious wound or a sprain, but rather a defensive cluster of inflammation, no doubt caused by a stumbled step or a poorly secured pannier that must have seemed too minor at the time for the Dek to even realise it had happened. Like Zhol's own injury, it would heal on it's own in time; but while he could favour the other shoulder, the mule hadn't been given that option.
Zhol abandoned the stall, and roamed the stables gathering the medicinal supplies he needed. A few leaves and herbs that Zhol recognised by shape, having already forgotten the Nari names he'd been taught to associate with them; a stone pestle; a few drops of alcohol from the supposedly hidden flask that almost everyone knew was there. Slowly, the ingredients came together, ground into a viscous paste that smelt far more appetising than it probably was. He returned to the stall, makeshift analgesic in hand, and held the substance close enough for the mule to take a cursory sniff. It seemed unconvinced; Zhol injected as much reassurance into his words as he could muster. "It will help. Trust me."
The mule flinched in reluctance as Zhol began to smear the paste onto it's flank and massage it into the tissue, but within a few moments it's protests subsided, the same soothing numbness creeping into it's flesh as was currently robbing Zhol's fingertips of feeling. He felt the numbness transform into warmth, as the paste drew the heat away from the tendons and muscles, the pain gradually ushered away in it's wake. The mule fidgeted, but with far less vigour than before. A snort that almost sounded like reluctant gratitude tumbled from it's muzzle. Zhol took it as such. "You're welcome," he replied, with a satisfied smile.
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.
Just a reminder, I am not awarding wages, simply grading.
