Late afternoon the possibly dead Cornan stumbled into the village in the Juniper forest nearest his camp. Elder Tuomas the sage was milling around whispering for spirits. Cornan held up his hands palms showing in submission.
“Fell down a ditch?” asked Tuomas.
Cornan said, “With a nerj in an iron helm with a pretty knife.”
Grinning Tuomas slide out the gleaming knife turning it handle first toward Tuomas. Aged hands captured the knife. Old fingers slid along the steel and the carved handle.
“He lives,” said Cornan, “better than I. He wasn’t hurt too bad. He could have used his bow.”
Toumas tilted the knife to catch distant light from distant torches.
“Respect. Perhaps he came to respect you. Perhaps he was frustrated. Perhaps he had other knives making this not worth the trouble. Perhaps you will meet him again.”
Cornan felt worried. He really could have died.
“Time for a sage’s skill on a warriors wounds,” said Toumas passing back the knife.
Toumas led Cornan inside the main hall. Chanting softly to spirit helpers scented water was pressed over the wounds. Thus the wounds were washed. Cornan gave over heather which was ground then sponged over the deepest stab. A stressful sleep followed troubled by bumping bruises in the night.
In the morning Cornan took to doing local chores seeking to earn meals while staying close to the healer. The villagers were quite understanding of this. Danger and death are well known to these people. After seeing Tuomas again Cornan spent another night in the villager’s care.
As the crept up Tuomas said, “There is no signs of infection. No fever nor oozing puss. The spirits have kept you safe. You can go back to your camp now to your self-isolation”
Cornan smiled, “Thank you Tuomas. You, spirits and the community have been kind.”
Good relations were important. Before they could be strained Cornan returned to the camp. There were no new catches in the traps. He went about resetting him. A strange happiness came over him. Knowing he was alive meant more. Had it been the near death in the fight? Had it been the kindness of the villagers? Had the spirits kissed him on the cheek? He did not know only that he was happy.
Cornan was back to a survival routine. Bits of fur left were shaved with the new knife. These he cleaned carefully to make two bandages. A few pinches of heather was now what he had for the sixth C of survival: care.
In a few days work he had put together a birch short bow. His self made bow had its issues. Having the better knife certainly made the task easier. Trading had again brought him to three arrows. This made a possible bow hunting set. He still lacked skis which would take replacement furs.
After visiting the village to trade for food Cornan felt like being in the wild. He went hours walking to the north west. A sense of being of in no-man’s land called to him. The emptiness of being far from settlements even his own primitive trap strewn camp. It was on this walk that in the minimal light of the late evening he came across elk tracks. This with his new bow in hand!
Open mire winds danced the falling snow. Fresh tracks circled as the elk had been grazing on scant berry bushes. Cornan was as quiet as he could which is to say only just so.
Grandfather was sitting at the fire in a memory. Thick furs cushioning both him and young Cornan.
Grandfather said, “When nearing the hunt calm yourself. Rest. When the blood pumps hard in your body it shakes the hand. Rest. Breath steady. Be patient. Be silent. Be waiting.”
Cornan on the snows was now amid trees. Deep darkness had clad the world. He waited, advanced on tracks, paused on sounds and waited. This he repeated several times. Then a tree came toward him with its shape transforming into that of the elk. Cornan’s arrow let fly striking it in a foreleg. The elk bolted. Cornan took a breath then patiently followed.
It was turns and loops. Tracks lost and tracks found. When the tracks were lost he followed the teaching of cutting a piece of pie from the center. Turn slightly to one side, walk out a ways, cross over then come back. If one slice of pie didn’t find the lost trail make another to the side or cut a bigger slice.
With the light so poor Cornan changed weapons to one of three bone spears he had made at the camp. The bones of the wolf-killed elk made the spear tips. This was a taxing stalk. His body started to ache for sleep. If he was tired then he hoped the elk was too.
(OOC: taking a short break. My eyes are all squinty from looking for black tracks on a grey night screen, and that with the setting for night brightness turned up)
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[Brygun] Cornan the Barbarian
Topic: [Brygun] Cornan the Barbarian (Read 26619 times)