16th Bell - 75th Day of Fall, 517AV - Pridesun Pavilion
For days he'd been listening to the rain drum on the top of the tent. In fact, he'd been in that tent far more days than he'd cared for. Waiting for stitches to fall out after doing their work knitting his skin back together. Following the healer's advice, keeping stress and movement to a minimum, giving his body all the time it needed to recover.
Sensible, intelligent, practical... and Konrad hated every bell of it.
He sighed and rubbed his face for the fiftieth time. Sweaty soaked his palm when he lowered it. The storm had been lashing Endrykas for days, but the heat of the season hadn't diminished. Except for that first day, when the skies opened and an ocean started dumping on the city... but within bells, it was a lukewarm miasma, a reflection of the heat choking the air, as unable to escape it as the humans and animals below.
Konrad reached out and grabbed his waterskin without looking. That, his purse,
his weapons, his clothes... all of them he could find without even looking nowadays. They were all in easy reach, dotted around the bed that had been his resting place since the battle with the Yukmen.
Resting place. Like I'm a corpse. Good bloody word for it.
He shifted, moving, trying to relieve some cramp in his side, and winced as a dulled but insistent spike of pain drove into his lower back. The dressing there was almost as much a part of him as his hands and feet. Every day it was changed, although he'd noticed there was less and less blood. Some days none at all. The Pridesun healer had told him not to push himself, though. He was still too weak, and the old crab hadn't even blinked when Konrad gave him a look that was decidedly unimpressed with that opinion.
Not much longer, he thought, soothing his pain and his ego. Few more days, and you'll be back out there.
Which wasn't to say, however, that he wasn't. He was just out there far less than he'd like. Trapping and hunting was not a good idea for him; tramping across leagues of rough grassland with a foot-long gash in his back tended to do that. Instructing visitors and newcomers in combat... gods, that was just laughable.
But Konrad had more than just corporeal talents, now. He thanked his own wisdom in learning others ways. Without them, he'd be just another burdensome mouth to feed, resigned to sewing or fixing nets or fletching.
But Konrad had other skills. When the rain slowed or stopped, and his tent flapped opened, he knew he would be called to use them.
The walahk smiled to himself in the gloom of the tent, storm spewing rivers down onto the huddled city. He'd been useless in almost all ways for days and days... but he'd had time to practice, too. To hone his skills. His craft.
His djed.
Not long after, Yacob's face poked into his tent. He swiveled his gaze around to meet his eyes, and the young Drykas who was the unnamed unspoken, but unquestioned ankal of the pariah pavilion nodded firmly at the wounded man.
"We need your skills."
Konrad nodded back, getting carefully upright, finding it was a mite easier that day, just as it had been the day before that. Already clad in breeches and tunic, he contemplated boots before deciding against them. He wasn't going far, after all. He didn't even bother with his hat. Just waddled towards the tend flap, and stepped out-
-onto a sodden, soaking plain that was ripe with plunder.
