26 Saun 720
Wealth Skill: Fieldcraft
The trial before, Dan had found a tree heavy with late plums and spent the trial picking as many as he could reach. They weren't particularly big, perhaps the size of the top joint of his thumb, but they were very ripe and sweet and filled a craving he hadn't realised he possessed. He'd had plums for supper and breakfast, but there was no way he would manage to eat all of them before they went off, which meant he had to preserve them somehow. Luckily it was Saun, and the dry heat under the twin suns was ideal for drying food to keep for the cold seasons.
Dan had set up a drying rack similar to the ones he used for drying horse apples into fuel, out of thin twigs stacked in criss-cross layers. Now, he settled himself in the shade of his tent, pulled the sack of plums close, and drew his knife.
He grabbed the first of the plums, cut it in half with his knife, and prised out the centre stone, letting it fall into a wooden bowl. He dropped the halves of the plum into a second bowl and reached for another plum. This was going to be a long trial.
He kept going until he had a bowl full of split plums and fingers sticky with juice, then he set down his knife, licked the juice off his fingers, and carried the bowl of fruit out into the hot sunshine. He spread them out on the drying rack in a single layer, as neatly and evenly as he could manage, then retreated back into the shade to start filling the bowl again.
The second time he brought out a bowl full of plums to spread them out to dry, he also took the time to flip the plums from the first bowl over so that they would dry more evenly. The Saun suns were doing a good job of burning all the moisture out of them, but even so it would probably take a couple of trials before all the plums were dried all the way through. He studied how much room the plums he had already done were taking up, and how many he still had to go, and pulled a face. He might need a bigger drying rack. Or to find some other way of preserving the last of the plums. He still had room for a couple more bowlfuls though, so he went back to the slow, sticky process of removing the stones, and if he occasionally snuck a bit of plum into his mouth rather than the bowl - well, it wasn't as if the ponies were going to tell anyone.
Halfway through the third bowl, the stone stubbornly stuck for a moment, until he levered it hard with the point of the knife. Then it abruptly obeyed, shooting out of the plum, through the air, and plinking into Smoke's flank. The younger of his two ponies startled at the impact and bolted a couple of paces, then settled again and turned to give Dan the dirtiest look he'd ever received from her. He couldn't help but laugh, and Smoke whipped her tail round and huffed at him. He only laughed harder at that and finished the rest of that bowl and the next without further incident.
That left him with perhaps half a bowl, which wasn't as bad as he feared. He stretched, his back aching from being hunched over the bowl and knife for so long, and decided to go and see what he could find for a supper that wasn't entirely fruit.
His fish trap, when he checked it, was empty, but he cut himself a pair of cattail heads that could be roasted and eaten like corn, and wandered along the bank of the stream to see what else he could find, putting his feet down gently in the dry grass so as not to scare anything off. He saw a fish shadow flicker where an old willow tree's roots made an overhang in the bank and stopped mid-stride. He wobbled on one foot for a moment, arms flailing for balance, and carefully put his other foot down.
He set his gathering bag down in the grass, stripped to a ragged loincloth, and eased himself into the cool water, enjoying the contrast to the heat of the suns overhead. Mud squelched between his toes as he moved one foot slowly forward, then the other. He kept his legs wide apart to let the water flow between them and minimise the size of the ripples he caused. The tips of his waving fingers touched the fish's tail, and slid under it to tickle its belly. The fish's underside felt cold, the same temperature as the water soothing the muscles of his hard-worked hands, slick but not slimy. It felt like a log covered in soaking wet moss, except that it moved. The fins sent little, tickly, ripples against his skin as he slid past them. He took a deep breath and held it, then slid a little further along the fish, feeling for the gills. Movement against his hands told him he was close, and he grabbed hastily, jamming thumb and finger through the gills.
He yanked the fish from the water and threw it high onto the bank before scrambling after it. It thrashed and flailed and slid back towards the water. He fumbled in the grass for his knife. Finding it, he snatched it up and hit the fish hard on the head with the pommel. The thrashing stopped. He hit it again for good measure, and looked around to memorise landmarks for this spot because where one fish rested, another one might too. They liked the same spots over and over. If his fish trap didn't work well in its current place, he could move it here and hope for better luck.
He took the time to clean the fish on the spot, and rinse away the dirt and sweat and juice from his body at the same time, finally returning to camp clean and refreshed and hungry. It was a good fish, not overly long, but fat enough that he could cut it into clumsy fillets, one to cook tonight, and the rest to smoke for later. He had also gathered a fistful of parsley on his way back and now he chopped that into small pieces and tossed that in the pan with the fish.
He skewered the cattails and propped them over the edge of the fire to roast, turning them every so often. That reminded him that he also needed to turn the fruit, so he padded over barefoot to do that while everything cooked. Some of them had stuck to the rack and had to be prised loose in order to turn them over, so he took longer than he had hoped or expected to and had to dash back to the fire when the fish began to scorch. He flipped it quickly and was relieved to note that while it was darker than intended, he'd saved it soon enough that it was still edible.
He slid the fish and the cattail onto a plate and stretched out in the grass by the fire to eat. Here the smoke from the fire kept most of the biting insects and flies at bay and he could enjoy his meal in peace. The parsley, he realised about halfway through, was helping to disguise the scorched taste and added a flavour all of its own to the fish. He liked it and made a mental note to use that combination again in the future, when he could get hold of all of the ingredients. The cattails were good too. They would have been all the better for a bit of butter, but since he didn't have any, he settled for what he had and allowed himself to enjoy it rather than pining after the impossible.
The same was true for his life out here, he thought, pushing the empty plate aside and rolling onto his back so that he could gaze up into the cloudless blue of the sky. There were good days and there were bad days, but he enjoyed what he could, and what he had, while he had it, rather than compare it to dreams and hopes and have it fall short into disappointment. That didn't mean that he didn't have hopes and dreams. It was just that they were a seperate thing to reality, and the reality of his life meant that there was a fine line to it where he couldn't afford to live in dreams. Dreams didn't get your dinner caught and cooked - or for that matter, the pots cleaned. He grinned to himself, stretched luxuriously, and then climbed to his feet to get on with the never-ending chores.
"Signed words" Spoken words
Wealth Skill: Fieldcraft
The trial before, Dan had found a tree heavy with late plums and spent the trial picking as many as he could reach. They weren't particularly big, perhaps the size of the top joint of his thumb, but they were very ripe and sweet and filled a craving he hadn't realised he possessed. He'd had plums for supper and breakfast, but there was no way he would manage to eat all of them before they went off, which meant he had to preserve them somehow. Luckily it was Saun, and the dry heat under the twin suns was ideal for drying food to keep for the cold seasons.
Dan had set up a drying rack similar to the ones he used for drying horse apples into fuel, out of thin twigs stacked in criss-cross layers. Now, he settled himself in the shade of his tent, pulled the sack of plums close, and drew his knife.
He grabbed the first of the plums, cut it in half with his knife, and prised out the centre stone, letting it fall into a wooden bowl. He dropped the halves of the plum into a second bowl and reached for another plum. This was going to be a long trial.
He kept going until he had a bowl full of split plums and fingers sticky with juice, then he set down his knife, licked the juice off his fingers, and carried the bowl of fruit out into the hot sunshine. He spread them out on the drying rack in a single layer, as neatly and evenly as he could manage, then retreated back into the shade to start filling the bowl again.
The second time he brought out a bowl full of plums to spread them out to dry, he also took the time to flip the plums from the first bowl over so that they would dry more evenly. The Saun suns were doing a good job of burning all the moisture out of them, but even so it would probably take a couple of trials before all the plums were dried all the way through. He studied how much room the plums he had already done were taking up, and how many he still had to go, and pulled a face. He might need a bigger drying rack. Or to find some other way of preserving the last of the plums. He still had room for a couple more bowlfuls though, so he went back to the slow, sticky process of removing the stones, and if he occasionally snuck a bit of plum into his mouth rather than the bowl - well, it wasn't as if the ponies were going to tell anyone.
Halfway through the third bowl, the stone stubbornly stuck for a moment, until he levered it hard with the point of the knife. Then it abruptly obeyed, shooting out of the plum, through the air, and plinking into Smoke's flank. The younger of his two ponies startled at the impact and bolted a couple of paces, then settled again and turned to give Dan the dirtiest look he'd ever received from her. He couldn't help but laugh, and Smoke whipped her tail round and huffed at him. He only laughed harder at that and finished the rest of that bowl and the next without further incident.
That left him with perhaps half a bowl, which wasn't as bad as he feared. He stretched, his back aching from being hunched over the bowl and knife for so long, and decided to go and see what he could find for a supper that wasn't entirely fruit.
His fish trap, when he checked it, was empty, but he cut himself a pair of cattail heads that could be roasted and eaten like corn, and wandered along the bank of the stream to see what else he could find, putting his feet down gently in the dry grass so as not to scare anything off. He saw a fish shadow flicker where an old willow tree's roots made an overhang in the bank and stopped mid-stride. He wobbled on one foot for a moment, arms flailing for balance, and carefully put his other foot down.
He set his gathering bag down in the grass, stripped to a ragged loincloth, and eased himself into the cool water, enjoying the contrast to the heat of the suns overhead. Mud squelched between his toes as he moved one foot slowly forward, then the other. He kept his legs wide apart to let the water flow between them and minimise the size of the ripples he caused. The tips of his waving fingers touched the fish's tail, and slid under it to tickle its belly. The fish's underside felt cold, the same temperature as the water soothing the muscles of his hard-worked hands, slick but not slimy. It felt like a log covered in soaking wet moss, except that it moved. The fins sent little, tickly, ripples against his skin as he slid past them. He took a deep breath and held it, then slid a little further along the fish, feeling for the gills. Movement against his hands told him he was close, and he grabbed hastily, jamming thumb and finger through the gills.
He yanked the fish from the water and threw it high onto the bank before scrambling after it. It thrashed and flailed and slid back towards the water. He fumbled in the grass for his knife. Finding it, he snatched it up and hit the fish hard on the head with the pommel. The thrashing stopped. He hit it again for good measure, and looked around to memorise landmarks for this spot because where one fish rested, another one might too. They liked the same spots over and over. If his fish trap didn't work well in its current place, he could move it here and hope for better luck.
He took the time to clean the fish on the spot, and rinse away the dirt and sweat and juice from his body at the same time, finally returning to camp clean and refreshed and hungry. It was a good fish, not overly long, but fat enough that he could cut it into clumsy fillets, one to cook tonight, and the rest to smoke for later. He had also gathered a fistful of parsley on his way back and now he chopped that into small pieces and tossed that in the pan with the fish.
He skewered the cattails and propped them over the edge of the fire to roast, turning them every so often. That reminded him that he also needed to turn the fruit, so he padded over barefoot to do that while everything cooked. Some of them had stuck to the rack and had to be prised loose in order to turn them over, so he took longer than he had hoped or expected to and had to dash back to the fire when the fish began to scorch. He flipped it quickly and was relieved to note that while it was darker than intended, he'd saved it soon enough that it was still edible.
He slid the fish and the cattail onto a plate and stretched out in the grass by the fire to eat. Here the smoke from the fire kept most of the biting insects and flies at bay and he could enjoy his meal in peace. The parsley, he realised about halfway through, was helping to disguise the scorched taste and added a flavour all of its own to the fish. He liked it and made a mental note to use that combination again in the future, when he could get hold of all of the ingredients. The cattails were good too. They would have been all the better for a bit of butter, but since he didn't have any, he settled for what he had and allowed himself to enjoy it rather than pining after the impossible.
The same was true for his life out here, he thought, pushing the empty plate aside and rolling onto his back so that he could gaze up into the cloudless blue of the sky. There were good days and there were bad days, but he enjoyed what he could, and what he had, while he had it, rather than compare it to dreams and hopes and have it fall short into disappointment. That didn't mean that he didn't have hopes and dreams. It was just that they were a seperate thing to reality, and the reality of his life meant that there was a fine line to it where he couldn't afford to live in dreams. Dreams didn't get your dinner caught and cooked - or for that matter, the pots cleaned. He grinned to himself, stretched luxuriously, and then climbed to his feet to get on with the never-ending chores.
"Signed words" Spoken words
