Tuesday, May 08, 2007

One Fine Day

Without opening his eyes, Mograg put his hand on Gunnar's muzzle and gently pushed the cold nose away. "You know, Hollowgut, if you'd hunt for yourself you wouldn't need to wake me up just to feed you." The wolf whined more insistently, pushing back against Mograg's hand. "Fine, fine..."

The shamaness at his side stirred only briefly as he eased his way free of her, careful as he could be to not wake her. The horizon had only begun to blush with the approach of daylight. The stars were still quite visible above him.

Mograg stood up with a yawn. He stretched as he looked around the camp, bleary-eyed. Thumb and trigger finger came up to clear his eyes, the other hand scratching idly. He looked over to another tree, not far off from where he slept. By its hind legs hung the carcass of a stag, dressed and dripping the last of the excess blood from its open neck. It did not seem to have attracted any unwanted attention, or at least no more than Gunnar's presence held at bay. Glancing a bit further away, the offering of entrails he had left for the other wild creatures seemed to have been well accepted. Later today, he would butcher the stag. It would keep them fed, and the rest of the meat would be sold in town for a fair price.

Two sets of eyes watched from above him as he pulled on a loin cloth from a large pack near the ground where he slept. A smaller sack hung from the same tree as the stag. He retrieved it. From within, he produced a roasted quail and fed it to the wolf, reserving part of it for the dragonling which swooped down to his hand and carried the meat off again. The other pair of eyes, an owl, only watched. It must have had a successful hunt in the previous evening.

He eyed the other contents of the smaller pack. Fruits, hard cheeses, breads, berry juices, skins of water. Breakfast, and plentiful at that, but it would wait. He took only a water skin and replaced the smaller sack in the tree. He returned to his larger pack. From an attached, large leather case he withdrew a fishing pole.

He selected one of a handful of baubles to attach to the line. He patiently waited for a fish, a fairly small one, to let itself be caught. He took the fish from the small hook in its mouth. Working with the quickness of practiced hand, he switched the hook on the line to one much larger, his smaller fish still wriggling in one hand. He set the line for the deep, cold waters of the nearby lake. He was after big fish this morning. He ran the hook through the top of the smaller fish, in the meat below the dorsal fin. He cast the line and smiled as he attached the anchor, a device of his own design, to the handle of the rod. He sank it into the ground where it would be held secure, waiting for the strike. He knelt at the side of the water, cleaning his hands. He went back to the side of the shamaness, watching the water brighten as day chased night from the sky. It might be a few hours of watching and waiting, but the larger fish would make for an excellent lunch.

After lunch, they took what they did not need of the butchered stag to a nearby town to trade fairly for it. Passing by an orphanage, obviously overwhelmed with an influx of little ones, he decided the spirit of the stag would be better honored in their cooking pots. He didn't follow all the Orcish that was spoken to him, but he smiled a bit and waved off the attempt to pay him, meager as the offered coin was. Perhaps he would be back with larger game.

The late afternoon and early evening found them exploring places both old and new. They saw his Little Sister for a while, and she was happy, having spent her day with her love and intending to spend her evening likewise. They ran into an old friend, maybe two, and spent a little time with them as well.

Before sundown, he went off alone with Gunnar and they tracked the right game for the orphanage. The proud clefthoof bull saw him and stomped defiantly toward him. Gunnar, the Brave Warrior, charged after it, barking and growling at the beast so many times his size. He gave the great beast pause, holding it at range for Mograg. Mograg raised his gun and spoke to the clefthoof bull's spirit, thanking him for providing food to the orphans and refugees. He took careful aim. The clefthoof bull fell easily, the final report of Mograg's gun echoing against the mountains.

Several of the orcs saw him dragging the now dressed clefthoof bull toward the village and came to aid him with the burden. When he saw to it that the meat would get to where it was needed, he headed to the lake and cleaned himself once more before rejoining his shamaness for a quiet evening.

They stayed at the camp that evening, but made plans to travel to a new place for a few days, knowing well they would return to this place. In his evening ritual, Mograg maintained his gear, carefully ensuring he would be prepared for the next day. A small fire burned low as they lay down together.

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