20 Ashan 720
Wealth Skill: Fieldcraft
Dan already had an arrow on the string when a fat partridge blundered up out of the grass almost under his nose, and he loosed on instinct. The arrow hit, but not cleanly and he had to scuttle after the wounded bird and wring its neck to finish the job. He tucked it into his gathering bag to clean later and, because it was Ashan, he went cautiously back to the place where the bird had blundered up from and parted the long grass. There, in a nest tucked into a tiny hollow, were two precious eggs. He took them both, knowing that without the bird sitting on them they'd die anyway, and carried them very carefully home, only stopping at the stream to fill his waterskin and gather a handful of the watercress that grew all arc round.
Once the eggs and the watercress were safely stored at home, and his bow had been unstrung and stored on its place in the wagon, he was able to turn his attention to the partridge. He took a seat on a log, letting it hang head down between his legs and began to pluck it, pulling the feathers off by the handful and storing them in a battered sack to sort through later. The flight feathers could be used to replace the flights on his arrows when they broke, and the smaller body feathers as an alternative stuffing to the horsehair he collected when he groomed Cloud and Smoke, his ponies.
It was a slow, smelly, messy job and it took a while before his nose went numb to it. He went too fast to begin with, snatching at the feathers rather than grasping them properly in his eagerness to get this part of the job over and done with. That meant that some of the feathers broke when he pulled them, and some he missed entirely, leaving bits of feather and quill still stuck in the skin of the bird. He had to go back over it a second time and pull the oddments off more carefully so that they didn't taint the bird when he cooked it.
When he finally got all the feathers fully removed, he took the bare bird back to the stream, this time settling by his fish trap, cutting off the head to drain out the blood and more carefully slicing open the belly so that he could pull out the guts and organs with his hand. He sorted out the edible from the inedible, and rinsed the blood (and most of the smell) away in the cold water, then tucked the edible organs back in the partridge's belly for ease of transport, hauled out his (empty) fish trap, and used the parts that he couldn't eat to bait the trap before lowering it back into the water. He took the opportunity of being down at the stream to clean himself up too, scrubbing the blood and the stink from his hands and arms. Birds weren't quite as easy to clean as fish were, but they weren't as hard as something like a squirrel, even if the water at this time of the arc left his hands going numb with the chill of it. He tucked his fingers under his arms to warm them up a bit and looked around to see if there was anything else he should be dealing with. The patch of sorrel he'd been keeping an eye on for the last several trials proved finally well grown enough to let him gather a handful without causing permanent damage to the plant, and he smiled all the way back to camp with his prize.
At home, he brought his cooking pot close. It was the wrong size and shape to hold the bird whole, so he stretched out the bird's legs one by one, probing with his knife until he found the joint he could cut through to remove the leg from the rest of the bird. The legs went into the pot, along with the edible organs, and Dan probed next along the wings until he could cut those free too, glad that it was too early in the arc for the flies to be stalking raw meat. That left him with the body of the bird, and while he could roast it over the fire, that would have too high a chance of losing all the fat and juices that he craved into the flames. Better, he thought, since the trial was cold enough, to store it until the first batch of meat was cooked and eaten, and then cook it as a second batch, very slowly, to have for breakfast tomorrow. The eggs, while an utter treat, would keep in their shells for a hand or more of trials, and could be cooked and eaten when he was otherwise short of food.
He wrapped the body in a clean piece of sacking and set it to one side, out of his immediate way, then added water to the pot, covered it with a lid, and nestled it into place on the brazier that cradled his fire. The fire itself had burned down to less showy cooking coals, that gave out a hotter and more even heat than any pretty flame, and he was experienced enough by now to understand that coals like this didn't mean the fire was going out. He'd seen enough novices start panicking and adding wood and huffing and puffing until the flames came back to realise that it did take a certain amount of experience to get to that realisation, but after years out here, he had more than enough of that.
He settled on the edge of his bed, folding his legs under him, close enough to the brazier to benefit from the heat and to smell the slow savory scents wafting from the meat as it cooked. While he waited, he checked the arrow he had used on the partridge, scrutinising the arrow head for chips and dents, the shaft for cracks and warping, and finally, the feathers for broken vanes and a loosening of the glue and sinew that held them securely to the shaft and allowed it to fly straight and true. It passed all his tests, so he cleaned the blood off it with slow, thorough, care, dried it off, and set it back in his quiver for another time.
He mixed the watercress and sorrel to make a crude salad, and then pulled out a shirt to mend while the first part of the partridge finished cooking. One of the shoulder seams had popped when he was gathering kindling, probably because he had to twist and sretch and reach up to gather standing wood, as it was the only really dry wood around at the moment. He licked the end of the thread to shape it to a point and squinted at the eye of the needle in the dim light from the fire. It took him several attempts to thread the needle, but he managed it at last, and turned his attention to drawing the edges of the seam together, trying to find places to stitch where the cloth wasn't so worn and frayed that the stitches would just pull loose again. He also had to be careful not to pull the sleeve in so far, in search of solid cloth, that it no longer fitted him and just the strain of putting it on would tear it once more. Finally, he found a compromise and began to sew it back together, frowning in concentration. Despite that, he couldn't get the stitches as small or as tidy or as even as whoever had originally made the shirt. His were clumsier, though they worked well enough and he only had to smooth out puckers in the cloth from pulling too tight a couple of times before he got the tension correct.
By the time he was done with his mending, the meat was also cooked, and he scooped pieces of meat and broth into a wooden bowl with his sppon and blew on it just long enough that he didn't burn his tongue before taking his first mouthful. It was unseasoned, only the flavours of the bird itself, and some (better cooks than he was, or just less hungry) would have called it bland, but to Dan the warmth, the way it filled his stomach, and the sheer richness of the fat and meat were something to savour and he alternated bites with the tangy greens to make it last as long as he could.
Wealth Skill: Fieldcraft
Dan already had an arrow on the string when a fat partridge blundered up out of the grass almost under his nose, and he loosed on instinct. The arrow hit, but not cleanly and he had to scuttle after the wounded bird and wring its neck to finish the job. He tucked it into his gathering bag to clean later and, because it was Ashan, he went cautiously back to the place where the bird had blundered up from and parted the long grass. There, in a nest tucked into a tiny hollow, were two precious eggs. He took them both, knowing that without the bird sitting on them they'd die anyway, and carried them very carefully home, only stopping at the stream to fill his waterskin and gather a handful of the watercress that grew all arc round.
Once the eggs and the watercress were safely stored at home, and his bow had been unstrung and stored on its place in the wagon, he was able to turn his attention to the partridge. He took a seat on a log, letting it hang head down between his legs and began to pluck it, pulling the feathers off by the handful and storing them in a battered sack to sort through later. The flight feathers could be used to replace the flights on his arrows when they broke, and the smaller body feathers as an alternative stuffing to the horsehair he collected when he groomed Cloud and Smoke, his ponies.
It was a slow, smelly, messy job and it took a while before his nose went numb to it. He went too fast to begin with, snatching at the feathers rather than grasping them properly in his eagerness to get this part of the job over and done with. That meant that some of the feathers broke when he pulled them, and some he missed entirely, leaving bits of feather and quill still stuck in the skin of the bird. He had to go back over it a second time and pull the oddments off more carefully so that they didn't taint the bird when he cooked it.
When he finally got all the feathers fully removed, he took the bare bird back to the stream, this time settling by his fish trap, cutting off the head to drain out the blood and more carefully slicing open the belly so that he could pull out the guts and organs with his hand. He sorted out the edible from the inedible, and rinsed the blood (and most of the smell) away in the cold water, then tucked the edible organs back in the partridge's belly for ease of transport, hauled out his (empty) fish trap, and used the parts that he couldn't eat to bait the trap before lowering it back into the water. He took the opportunity of being down at the stream to clean himself up too, scrubbing the blood and the stink from his hands and arms. Birds weren't quite as easy to clean as fish were, but they weren't as hard as something like a squirrel, even if the water at this time of the arc left his hands going numb with the chill of it. He tucked his fingers under his arms to warm them up a bit and looked around to see if there was anything else he should be dealing with. The patch of sorrel he'd been keeping an eye on for the last several trials proved finally well grown enough to let him gather a handful without causing permanent damage to the plant, and he smiled all the way back to camp with his prize.
At home, he brought his cooking pot close. It was the wrong size and shape to hold the bird whole, so he stretched out the bird's legs one by one, probing with his knife until he found the joint he could cut through to remove the leg from the rest of the bird. The legs went into the pot, along with the edible organs, and Dan probed next along the wings until he could cut those free too, glad that it was too early in the arc for the flies to be stalking raw meat. That left him with the body of the bird, and while he could roast it over the fire, that would have too high a chance of losing all the fat and juices that he craved into the flames. Better, he thought, since the trial was cold enough, to store it until the first batch of meat was cooked and eaten, and then cook it as a second batch, very slowly, to have for breakfast tomorrow. The eggs, while an utter treat, would keep in their shells for a hand or more of trials, and could be cooked and eaten when he was otherwise short of food.
He wrapped the body in a clean piece of sacking and set it to one side, out of his immediate way, then added water to the pot, covered it with a lid, and nestled it into place on the brazier that cradled his fire. The fire itself had burned down to less showy cooking coals, that gave out a hotter and more even heat than any pretty flame, and he was experienced enough by now to understand that coals like this didn't mean the fire was going out. He'd seen enough novices start panicking and adding wood and huffing and puffing until the flames came back to realise that it did take a certain amount of experience to get to that realisation, but after years out here, he had more than enough of that.
He settled on the edge of his bed, folding his legs under him, close enough to the brazier to benefit from the heat and to smell the slow savory scents wafting from the meat as it cooked. While he waited, he checked the arrow he had used on the partridge, scrutinising the arrow head for chips and dents, the shaft for cracks and warping, and finally, the feathers for broken vanes and a loosening of the glue and sinew that held them securely to the shaft and allowed it to fly straight and true. It passed all his tests, so he cleaned the blood off it with slow, thorough, care, dried it off, and set it back in his quiver for another time.
He mixed the watercress and sorrel to make a crude salad, and then pulled out a shirt to mend while the first part of the partridge finished cooking. One of the shoulder seams had popped when he was gathering kindling, probably because he had to twist and sretch and reach up to gather standing wood, as it was the only really dry wood around at the moment. He licked the end of the thread to shape it to a point and squinted at the eye of the needle in the dim light from the fire. It took him several attempts to thread the needle, but he managed it at last, and turned his attention to drawing the edges of the seam together, trying to find places to stitch where the cloth wasn't so worn and frayed that the stitches would just pull loose again. He also had to be careful not to pull the sleeve in so far, in search of solid cloth, that it no longer fitted him and just the strain of putting it on would tear it once more. Finally, he found a compromise and began to sew it back together, frowning in concentration. Despite that, he couldn't get the stitches as small or as tidy or as even as whoever had originally made the shirt. His were clumsier, though they worked well enough and he only had to smooth out puckers in the cloth from pulling too tight a couple of times before he got the tension correct.
By the time he was done with his mending, the meat was also cooked, and he scooped pieces of meat and broth into a wooden bowl with his sppon and blew on it just long enough that he didn't burn his tongue before taking his first mouthful. It was unseasoned, only the flavours of the bird itself, and some (better cooks than he was, or just less hungry) would have called it bland, but to Dan the warmth, the way it filled his stomach, and the sheer richness of the fat and meat were something to savour and he alternated bites with the tangy greens to make it last as long as he could.
