Shifting once more in his clay chair, built upon the smooth, cold surface of what he knew the Old Ones called "med-tel," he gazed and watched the man draw water. Soon, it would be HIS water supply...
Soon.
SOON.
***
The man sat in the shade of his hut. The hut was curved, and many bent, wooden logs held its frame together. The floor he had covered with blankets he had found on his travels, or he had taken when he had raided with his old friends. Animal hides also were scattered upon the sand floor. Besides the blanket-covered floor, he had few true belongings. He had a "bed-role," as the Old Ones called the sleeping device, which had begun to tear and tatter to pieces. He had taken this little possession when he was with his old buddies, raiding. He had also equipped himself with various weapons he had either taken, or created over the years--spears, swords, daggers, knives... Even something that went Bang!--a device of the Old Ones, no doubt. As clothing went, he surprisingly had little. He had a shirt--which he only wore when it was cool or cold--and a long garment that was like a large, long shirt, but warmer. The Olds called it a "jack-it." Besides that, he had a wide, transportable "pack that goes to the back," that he used to carry his things around in.
Or, at least, he USED to carry his things around in. Ever since he had stumbled upon this well--what, five, six years ago? Or was it more like twelve? He couldn't tell, time was hard to calculate these days. He had found the well, by literally STUMBLING upon it--walking across the desert, he had stepped upon a dip in the ground, and fell through, down the shaft of the well. Luckily, he had landed on his feet, and not on his head or spine. Ever since then, he'd begun to settle.
So, sitting upon his blankets and furs, meditating, his thumb and middle finger touched together--as was the custom when meditating--his eyes closed, he listened to the breeze screech past his doors. He felt the breeze in his hair, ruffling it, and tasted its sour, sandy scent. Robald, The Unnamed One, son of Rosan the Warrior, criss-crossed his legs, and listened to the faint, dying breeze whip through the hollows and nooks of the rocks and ridges arising from the desert's rigid floor, and soon fell into a deep slumber of peace...
***
Soon.
SOON.
***
The man sat in the shade of his hut. The hut was curved, and many bent, wooden logs held its frame together. The floor he had covered with blankets he had found on his travels, or he had taken when he had raided with his old friends. Animal hides also were scattered upon the sand floor. Besides the blanket-covered floor, he had few true belongings. He had a "bed-role," as the Old Ones called the sleeping device, which had begun to tear and tatter to pieces. He had taken this little possession when he was with his old buddies, raiding. He had also equipped himself with various weapons he had either taken, or created over the years--spears, swords, daggers, knives... Even something that went Bang!--a device of the Old Ones, no doubt. As clothing went, he surprisingly had little. He had a shirt--which he only wore when it was cool or cold--and a long garment that was like a large, long shirt, but warmer. The Olds called it a "jack-it." Besides that, he had a wide, transportable "pack that goes to the back," that he used to carry his things around in.
Or, at least, he USED to carry his things around in. Ever since he had stumbled upon this well--what, five, six years ago? Or was it more like twelve? He couldn't tell, time was hard to calculate these days. He had found the well, by literally STUMBLING upon it--walking across the desert, he had stepped upon a dip in the ground, and fell through, down the shaft of the well. Luckily, he had landed on his feet, and not on his head or spine. Ever since then, he'd begun to settle.
So, sitting upon his blankets and furs, meditating, his thumb and middle finger touched together--as was the custom when meditating--his eyes closed, he listened to the breeze screech past his doors. He felt the breeze in his hair, ruffling it, and tasted its sour, sandy scent. Robald, The Unnamed One, son of Rosan the Warrior, criss-crossed his legs, and listened to the faint, dying breeze whip through the hollows and nooks of the rocks and ridges arising from the desert's rigid floor, and soon fell into a deep slumber of peace...
***
