110 Ashan 721
Rharne Weather
Ashan Calender The last few days before Ymiden arrives, however, see a violent hurricane coming in through the Crescent Sea from the 110th to the 123rd of Ashan.
Dan woke with a splutter when the rising wind pulled the edge of his tent loose from its mooring pegs, whipped it up, and spattered a few drops of cold rain into Dan's face. He scrambled out of bed and stumbled out in his night clothes to secure the tent more firmly. As he straightened from doing so, the building clouds caught his eye. Just a dark smudge on the horizon, as yet, but the wind suggested it was coming his way, and a cold instinct in his gut told him it was going to be a bad one.
It was time to pack up and move somewhere better sheltered, before the whole tent got ripped away over his head by the wind, instead of just a single wall coming loose. The tent was good in most weathers, but he would rather not risk the loss. Especially when it would be so straight forward to move locations.
He let the ponies out to graze, gulped down a cup of fish soup left from the trial before, dressed for the weather, and headed out to gather his things. When he arrived on the bank of the stream, he slid his gathering bag off, dropped it beside him, and sprawled on his stomach where he could gaze into the rippling water. He brushed his fingers through the over-hanging grass, searching less than idly for the thin rope tethering his fish trap to the land.
His questing fingers snagged on the rope and he wrapped them round it and hauled it in until it lay against the bank, weighted down by the stones inside. He drew his knees up so that he was kneeling in the grass instead of lying, plunged both arms into the water, gripped the fish trap tightly and heaved it up onto the bank beside him. From there he could check it for fish, and he did so, grinning as he found not one, but two fish caught inside. He killed them with quick blows to the head, and begain to clean and gut them on the spot. He pushed the knife up through the roof of the each fish's mouth, then cut away from his body down the length of the fish. When he ran out of fish, he set the knife down, hooked two fingers through the hole in the mouth, and pulled. The guts came out cleanly, attached in a single mass.
He then flipped the fish so that he was holding it by the tail and used the edge of his knife to scrape off the fish's scales, working his way in short strokes from the tail to the head. He chopped off the heads and tails completely, flattened the fish out long enough to ease out the rest of the fish skeleton with his fingers and the tip of his knife, rinsed the fish clean in the stream, then wrapped them and tucked them into his gathering bag, along with a double handful of watercress, three cattail flowers still young enough to be edible, and a bit of wild garlic.
Normally, he would use the fish guts and scraps as bait in his trap, but he was moving on today, so he just buried them in the holes left by pulling up the wild garlic, carried the fish trap home, and stowed it in his cart. Then he went back out after his snares.
He gathered as he went, whatever he could get without slowing down or taking a great deal of time. Tender young nettles, dandelion leaves, and wood sorrel, a half dozen wild leeks, a spray of mint, a sprig of basil. Three rabbits from his snares, two of them young, plump, and foolish, the third old and skinny. He broke their necks quickly, cleanly, and efficiently, strung them over his shoulders, and packed away the snares to take with him. No sense in wasting the snares by leaving them behind, nor in wasting resources by having them catch and kill creatures that he couldn't retrieve and use.
Back at his camp, he drank the rest of the soup, rinsed out the pot, and began to pack up. He folded the felt hangings, rolled up the rugs, dismantled his bed and stacked the pieces in the cart. He banked a few coals in his brazier, clamped down the lid, and strapped it into a corner where there was no chance of it burning anything else. The rest of the fire he soaked with water, which had the side effect of watering and softening the ground beneath too, stirred the remains with a bare finger so that he could be sure there was nothing hot remaining, and stamped the square of turf he had cut to clear the hearth down to bare dirt back into its place. The folding furniture was folded down flat and stacked on top of the bed boards, all his stored food and fuel and spare clothing packed into sacks and wedged into their places in the cart. He was practiced at packing up, he knew where everything went, but it still took time. Eventually, though, he struck the tent itself, strapped the poles into place, and used the already damp canvas as a protective cover for the rest of his belongings.
He brushed the ponies down briskly, removing any dirt that might chafe under saddle and harness, then harnessed Smoke to his small cart and saddled Cloud for riding. He led them both a short distance away, then went back to his campsite and went over the ground thoroughly, inch by careful inch, to make absolutely sure that he hadn't missed or forgotten anything.
"Signed words" Spoken words
