"Oh yes, oh my yes" Shel said sighing happily.
The cart had stopped, and as much as he enjoyed his time traveling he enjoyed this most of all. A tired party coming to rest after a long day. It pleased every last bit of Halfling in him. A journey, a meal, the communion of tired travelers, and the creation of a home. A life traveling meant every day was built upon those pillars.
The half-elf and the human, Numzom and Tori, had been fairly quiet thus far but now perhaps they might come out of their shells. Shel had always found that sometimes the quiet ones in time had the most to say and it tended to pay dividends to listen when they spoke. All communities grew slowly, but once that growth started it tended to blossom rather quickly.
The Mithra, who was for all intents and purposes their de facto leader, set about creating a lighted perimeter around them then sat down aside one of the posts and began to play a flute. A beautiful tune really, though not particularly to Shel's liking. It was melancholic, sad, longing. Beautiful.
Shel threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder, then as Esalia played he dragged the firewood away from the wagon wheel and toward the center of camp to build a small fire. First a circle of stones, then the biggest pieces forming a square within that circle, then smaller and smaller pieces built up atop, finally from his bag an assortment of dried leaves, twigs, and thatch for kindling.
Striking flint against stone and blowing gently the kindling is quickly aflame and the fire begins to spread to the larger pieces below. As the fire comes to life Shel quickly produces from his bag three metal rods, each with a small hook about two thirds of the way up, and assembles them to form a tripod over the growing flame. He aligns the pot so that each rod will slide into the three small rings along the pots perimeter. Time to cook.
Immersed in his work and pleasantly accompanied by the song he pulls vegetables, meat, and spices from his bag, artfully arranging them before pouring water from his deer-skin bota into the pot. The meat will soon be edible though it will be some time before the stew is ready, and ideally it would cook for many hours more, but it will nourish their bodies just the same.
Venturing away from the pot, but keeping a keen eye on it, he toddles over to the Mithra.
Not wishing to intrude he sits a respectful distance away and listens to her play. He tends to prefer happier jaunty tunes, something a Halfling can dance to, but her playing is exquisite. As much as he loves the life he has now it makes him think back longingly on life among his kind. His Ma and Fa. There are no words to this song, but it speaks quite clearly of loss.
Leaning back until he can lay flat on his back Shel looks up at the stars as the Mithra plays on.
The cart had stopped, and as much as he enjoyed his time traveling he enjoyed this most of all. A tired party coming to rest after a long day. It pleased every last bit of Halfling in him. A journey, a meal, the communion of tired travelers, and the creation of a home. A life traveling meant every day was built upon those pillars.
The half-elf and the human, Numzom and Tori, had been fairly quiet thus far but now perhaps they might come out of their shells. Shel had always found that sometimes the quiet ones in time had the most to say and it tended to pay dividends to listen when they spoke. All communities grew slowly, but once that growth started it tended to blossom rather quickly.
The Mithra, who was for all intents and purposes their de facto leader, set about creating a lighted perimeter around them then sat down aside one of the posts and began to play a flute. A beautiful tune really, though not particularly to Shel's liking. It was melancholic, sad, longing. Beautiful.
Shel threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder, then as Esalia played he dragged the firewood away from the wagon wheel and toward the center of camp to build a small fire. First a circle of stones, then the biggest pieces forming a square within that circle, then smaller and smaller pieces built up atop, finally from his bag an assortment of dried leaves, twigs, and thatch for kindling.
Striking flint against stone and blowing gently the kindling is quickly aflame and the fire begins to spread to the larger pieces below. As the fire comes to life Shel quickly produces from his bag three metal rods, each with a small hook about two thirds of the way up, and assembles them to form a tripod over the growing flame. He aligns the pot so that each rod will slide into the three small rings along the pots perimeter. Time to cook.
Immersed in his work and pleasantly accompanied by the song he pulls vegetables, meat, and spices from his bag, artfully arranging them before pouring water from his deer-skin bota into the pot. The meat will soon be edible though it will be some time before the stew is ready, and ideally it would cook for many hours more, but it will nourish their bodies just the same.
Venturing away from the pot, but keeping a keen eye on it, he toddles over to the Mithra.
Not wishing to intrude he sits a respectful distance away and listens to her play. He tends to prefer happier jaunty tunes, something a Halfling can dance to, but her playing is exquisite. As much as he loves the life he has now it makes him think back longingly on life among his kind. His Ma and Fa. There are no words to this song, but it speaks quite clearly of loss.
Leaning back until he can lay flat on his back Shel looks up at the stars as the Mithra plays on.
