Growling lowly, Orractous - still buried under layers of Greenness - made his way back to camp. It was his monster that kept him going, where his body was exhausted to the point of passing out. However, he knew that giving up his mind would mean the monster could take over, so he remained in control as he slouched back to some campfire.
Arriving he must seem like a starving wolf, setting himself down, the greenness disappearing beneath his skin, next to a fire with a bowl of steaming... porridge it would seem. He held out his hand and waited for a bowl to be placed in his palm. The heat went unnoticed. The young Magician just focussed on the fact that it was food. He poured it in his mouth, ate it all away in under five minutes, and handed the bowl back to the invisible hand. Content, he closed his eyes and moved his shoulder blades to get a better spot. The campfire warmth his flesh and bones that would otherwise freeze from the lack of movement. He could sleep now, he wouldn’t mind that much.
But the night was still young, and sleeping in his gear seemed like a bad idea. With a grimace and a growl, Orractous pulled himself from the ground. He stared at some unfamiliar faces, ignoring their asking gazes, and pushing his whole body to a standing position. For a moment unsure if he could make it back to his tent, the Emerald Magician bent his knees. Seemed fine, he concluded. Slow like a turtle, the Mancer went on his way. He wasn’t sure where his tent was, and looked for details that he had captured on the way out to determine his route.
That resulted in a long maze through tents and campfires, hoping he might stumble on what could be his tent - because to be honest, they all looked alike. He picked a nice looking one at the center of camp, thinking it to be his, he walked in unannounced. Two head swung his way, half covered in blankets. They were in a struggling position, one on top of the other, and shouted at him that he was in the wrong tent. No shit, he didn’t share his tent with other people!
Wiping his nose, Orractous backed out and looked around again, trying to find an other nice looking tent that could be his. He stumbled around some more, then came to a stop at a almost deserted campfire. Finding his tent could take all night....
He sat down and took off his gear: sword, armor, shoes. With all of that away, he could move his soar muscles and bones again, stretching quietly as he listened to the talks around the fire.
One young woman rose up, she had long black hair and a tail behind her. Horse tail, he decided to call her. The woman smiled and began telling a story. ‘There once was a young Demon called Ractous Merson, who fought off a group of Nomads from stealing all their food when he and his father were camping out in the Cold North. His father had dropped a ten feet down the mountain slope when they had been coming back from a successful fishing trip, and the youngster was left to fend of his father and carry him back to their village. Little did he knew that the Nomads he hunted back had been scouting for their master, the God of the North, and reported back with twisted tales of a boy with devil strength thwarting their way. They were that ashamed to tell a young boy had been their better.’
‘Angered by the news, yet not knowing if it was true or not, Laca set down on a journey to test of the boy was a devil or not. By the time he reached young Ractous, his father had died among the cold of the mountains, and the boy himself had set out down the slope to bring the fish to his home. Laca met him at a crossroad, posing as a hungry and frightened older man, he asked the boy for a piece of his fish. Ractous, still struck heavily by the loss of his father, shooed the old man away, his eyes red from crying.’
‘It had been long since Laca had seen a youngster, let alone one that cried, and he did not understand what it meant. He could only conclude that the boy was indeed a devil. Keeping his distance, Laca followed the boy to his mountain village, and watched him set fire to his parent’s house - an old ritual when both owners of the house have died - thinking it an act of destruction. Believing his nomads to be right, Laca came to the boy the morning after, no longer pretending to be something else, his essence shown with a light that blinded the boy. He condemned him to live a life of suffering until he died, blinding him and taking his hearing from him as well. Then he left.’
‘Ractous cried for days, not hearing or seeing anyone who would want to help him. A month after the death of his father and the loss of two of his senses, he set out to prove the God wrong. Wandering into the forest without anything to guide him except smell and touch, Ractous sought his way back to where he had burried his father. For weeks his strode among the treetops and heavy snow, until on the day hunger was about to beat him, and his hands were too frozen to hunt an other small animal, he found a grave. He smelled the scent of ground beneath him, and felt the word written in the wood that lay on top. He pleaded to the god who had taken last of what he had from him. It was my father, he whom I lost that made my heart grow cold, he who was dying that forced me from my innocence.’
‘Laca, hearing the boy’s prayers, came down from his cold mountains, and walked the snow beside him. Knowing no mercy, only logic, the God lay his hands in the ground and sought the bones of the one who was buried here. He felt the fresh grave and looked into dead eyes. The boy was speaking truthfully. Shamed by what he had done, Laca decided to help the boy. He was not able to return his sight or give back his hearing. Thus the only sensible option was a quick and warm death. Cradling the starving boy in his arms, he pushed him away from the Fifth Gate, and into Out of Time.’
Concluding the story, the woman sat back down. She started at Orractous for a moment. The Emerald Magician had fallen back from the trunk he was seated on, and - with his feet warming in the heat of the fire - had fallen asleep quietly.
Of course he would wake up under a warm blanket, with no idea who put it there, having dreamt of cold snowy mountain tops and dumb gods.
