Pilgrim of Dust
5th Vhalar, 718
Arthur Yardley hadn’t been keen to let his latest employer take ten-trial off to visit some distant aunt, but begrudgingly agreed when Finn had offered to work the same number of trials for free when he returned. If he returned. Brimtattle, the stable-master and the boy’s mentor for over two seasons now, had been more lenient and simply requested his regards be delivered to Aunt Maggie as soon as he saw her.
Which means never, he’d thought to himself before he’d packed up and left.
Far as he knew he might have an aunt or uncle out there, but if they existed then they’d never bothered to find him and he imagined they wouldn’t start now. While he suspected Vuda’s bloodhounds were still on the prowl for him, the phenomenon in the Stormwastes posed a more immediate threat, not just to himself, but to Rharne as well. To Auya, to Mr. Brimtattle, to the Harpy Inn and all its customers… even to Bertha. The nosy priestess had been stalking him for a while now, but he knew how to shake her off when he wanted to. Part of him had contemplated telling her of his plans, but he'd dimissed the thought an instant later. She’d never approve him going out alone in the first place, even less so if he confessed he’d be looking for these fire-creatures that all the city talked about.
Perhaps she would’ve been less opposed if she knew how much care he’d taken to prepare. One advantage of having fled many times, was that he’d learned how to look after himself.
All stocked up on water and food to last him almost twice the amount of time he intended to spend in the Stormwastes, he rode out of Rharne on an old mule that he’d rented cheap. Horses were faster, but not as sturdy and he knew from experience they needed to be watered far more often than mules did.
---
This was thirsty country. Country that paid no mind that what Cycle the mortals called this time of the arc, for it was anything but cold here. His plain, sleeveless shirt was stained with a large dark spot beneath his collarbone where dust mingled with sweat and while he’d exchanged his working trousers for a second-hand pair of breeches, he was offered little coolth in return, even with the drawstrings loosened. His boots dangled from the creaking rawhide saddle while his toes baked in the heat. The mule didn’t fare much better, huffing and puffing while the sun beat down on them as they left a trail of dust behind. Dust was all that seemed to grow here. No matter which direction he squinted under the shield of his hand, all he could see was an endless, bare plain speckled with the ocassional pluck of shriveled, colorless grass and no sign at all of the fire beasts.
A bare tree, all white and grey like a dead person’s skin, provided the first bit of shade he’d come across since he’d left last night’s camp. The mule breathed a sigh of relief as he hopped off the animal’s back, guided it into the shade, and fetched a special waterskin for the poor beast. It would’ve been easier to dig a hole in the ground, fill it with water, and let the mule drink from that, but it was a waste of precious water too and one he could ill-afford.
Which means never, he’d thought to himself before he’d packed up and left.
Far as he knew he might have an aunt or uncle out there, but if they existed then they’d never bothered to find him and he imagined they wouldn’t start now. While he suspected Vuda’s bloodhounds were still on the prowl for him, the phenomenon in the Stormwastes posed a more immediate threat, not just to himself, but to Rharne as well. To Auya, to Mr. Brimtattle, to the Harpy Inn and all its customers… even to Bertha. The nosy priestess had been stalking him for a while now, but he knew how to shake her off when he wanted to. Part of him had contemplated telling her of his plans, but he'd dimissed the thought an instant later. She’d never approve him going out alone in the first place, even less so if he confessed he’d be looking for these fire-creatures that all the city talked about.
Perhaps she would’ve been less opposed if she knew how much care he’d taken to prepare. One advantage of having fled many times, was that he’d learned how to look after himself.
All stocked up on water and food to last him almost twice the amount of time he intended to spend in the Stormwastes, he rode out of Rharne on an old mule that he’d rented cheap. Horses were faster, but not as sturdy and he knew from experience they needed to be watered far more often than mules did.
---
This was thirsty country. Country that paid no mind that what Cycle the mortals called this time of the arc, for it was anything but cold here. His plain, sleeveless shirt was stained with a large dark spot beneath his collarbone where dust mingled with sweat and while he’d exchanged his working trousers for a second-hand pair of breeches, he was offered little coolth in return, even with the drawstrings loosened. His boots dangled from the creaking rawhide saddle while his toes baked in the heat. The mule didn’t fare much better, huffing and puffing while the sun beat down on them as they left a trail of dust behind. Dust was all that seemed to grow here. No matter which direction he squinted under the shield of his hand, all he could see was an endless, bare plain speckled with the ocassional pluck of shriveled, colorless grass and no sign at all of the fire beasts.
A bare tree, all white and grey like a dead person’s skin, provided the first bit of shade he’d come across since he’d left last night’s camp. The mule breathed a sigh of relief as he hopped off the animal’s back, guided it into the shade, and fetched a special waterskin for the poor beast. It would’ve been easier to dig a hole in the ground, fill it with water, and let the mule drink from that, but it was a waste of precious water too and one he could ill-afford.