Valacirca
Very hard, as it turns out.
Materials are plentiful; there are sticks and withies galore that I can weave together to make a half-walnut shape, using willow bark strips to tie the whole thing together into an rude structure I can crouch in, but I have no way to waterproof it as of yet. Without that, the thing will be no dryer than my ramshakle raft and hardly any more buoyant either.
A single deer skin would be plenty for the job and a stag would solve many of my tool-related woes, but wishing will not achieve anything. I did see a bear recently, but I would be a fool (or Tyelkormo, but that is a distinction almost without a difference) to try to hunt such a beast with a dagger and a shortbow, especially at this time of year when it has probably just awoken from hibernation. In fact, I had best hope it stays afraid of my fire or I might find myself in the unenviable situation of watching it tear into my hovel while I sleep.
This thought lends some urgency to my literal hunt for a waterproofing material. Enough coney skins will do the job and the little lagomorphs seem to be plentiful in the area. I have spotted at least three active warrens, but getting to them without approaching the bear or drawing it to me with the scent of a fresh kill or cooking is a tricky proposition to which haste is not the answer. Subsisting on mushrooms and wild rhubarb in the short term is not pleasant (I despise rhubarb like no other vegetable), but it avoids the most likely scents that might draw a hungry predator.
My initial course of action is simple: Spend a day or two observing the bear's movements to figure out when he is active and if possible identify his den. From that point my options open up.
Killing the bear, probably by luring it into a trap somehow, is quickly dismissed as a first option. Doing so will just lead to another bear moving into the vacated territory sooner or later, assuming I even managed to produce a trap capable of killing the beast without putting myself in grievous danger to trigger it. It is also wasteful, since I doubt I could use even the majority of the carcass ere it went rancid, which would again attract predators to my unprotected camp. If anything, a pack of wolves would be worse than a single bear.
The idea of a trap can be repurposed, however. Knowing when the bear sleeps, I can wait until my camp is downwind of the bear's den to hunt coneys during this season, skin a couple in situ and then use them to create a trail away from my camp that the bear will hopefully follow. Meanwhile I will smear the rest in mud and carry them back before processing them as fast as I can. Cooking can be done when the bear is likely asleep and only if the wind is favourable, and hopefully the skins will cure fast enough for me to use them before my luck runs out.
In the last ditch, I could just sleep on the island with only my cloak for shelter, but with the fairly frequent rain over the past couple of days, that prospect is not a promising one. The water is ice cold and while I would probably not be risking exposure in the air now the year is warming, it would be maddeningly unpleasant.
The bear wakes up earlier than expected and I have to make a quick dash away from the bait, but otherwise the plan works, with the beast seemingly content to forage down at that end of its range for some time afterward.
That time is all I need shoot a few more coneys (or more likely young rabbits, at this time of year and given the ease with which I sneak up on them, their elders being far more cunning) with my bow and bring them back to camp, sparing a lethargic hedgehog along the way since I truly do not need that much meat. Once skinned, I think I will have enough leather for the coracle and at the same time I can begin drying the remainder of the catch to help it keep. If such little wind as gets down into the crater changes I might be in for bother, but so long as I do not keep the meat too near my hovel, I should not be in much danger.
Forty days later, the coracle is ready. Tanning is an unpleasant process, only made worse by the trial and error I had to persevere through to fill the gaps in the odd bits of trivia I have picked up over the years.
To be perfectly honest, I was at times tempted to go back and try to find the Griffons again, simply so as to have someone to foist the work off on for some payment, but a good craftself will endure much for his work.
On the bright side, the smell was so bad that I think I drove the bear off.
Anyway, the little boat does not leak and seats me, if not comfortably then at least competently. Further testing using the lump of mispickel reveals it is buoyant enough to carry some cargo as well, though I dare not dump the crystal directly into the bottom of the coracle. I have already had to repair one broken rod while waterproofing it and the process was long and fiddly enough to do well so as to make me leery of my prospects in the event of serious damage. As for moving the thing, while simple paddling works to a limited extent, a branch will suffice as an improvised oar until I have the tools to properly shape wood.
First things first, I begin transferring my supplies over to the island. There are no trees there and so building a shelter will not be so easy as on the shore, but I shall have to as the hovel is beginning to come down around me again.
Thankfully, the year has warmed and I suspect summer to be upon me, so shelter is not too urgent right now, especially with the rain easing off. The simplest solution for the time being is to use the coracle as a sort of half-shelter, propped up somehow so I can crawl under it to sleep. A fire is easy to keep fuelled on the island, so long as I make regular trips to the shore for wood, which can easily coincide with foraging trips.
In other words, I have some time to actually start working on that lothblab.
The ones Father taught me to use were fairly advanced for what they were, built of clay brick and of refined shape. I will have none of that luxury for now. Instead, I shall simplify the structure to its most basic form, with the full intent of replacing it later. That means a shallow pit in the ground with stones carefully piled around it and stuck together with mud from the waterfront. A hole in the side facing the prevailing wind (such as it is) will help to feed the fire and a second opening dug out of the pit will allow me to access the interior without completely dismantling the entire thing every time, while also acting as a chimney of sorts.
Before any of that is worth doing though, I need fuel that will burn hot enough to melt copper, allowing for my less than ideal conditions. Ideally that means charcoal, which in turn means building a 'clamp'.
Essentially, I need to set up a frame of logs tied together at the top to form a frame and set further logs in a circle around them. Then I cover the whole lot in mud, drop a lit branch down a chimney and wait a few days, blocking up any cracks that form in the seal, which should be easily recognisable. Nice and easy, though I will have to be much more attentive than I was as an elfling longing to go back to his music sheets.
I lack any logs however, which places a further prerequisite in my path. I need to fell a tree or two, transport them over to the island and cut them into small enough pieces, all without risking my source of building materials. There are a few scattered copses in the crater, and I shan't touch the willows unless I have to, but sooner or later I will have to either learn to cultivate and coppice trees from scratch (assuming 'plant acorns and hope' proves insufficient) or start bringing wood in from beyond the crater without the use of pack animals.
That is a problem a few years off however, so long as I do not attempt any major construction projects that would likely jeopardise my ability to eat anyway. There is so much loose stone here on the island and around the crater edges that I might actually find a primarily stone cottage a far more practical home than a wooden one in the long term. It would also play (marginally) closer to my existing skillset.
Felling trees with an improvised stone axe is back-breaking, thirsty work, but necessary. Hopefully, the next time I do this I will have real tools to make things easier.
Dragging an entire tree is obviously impractical, so I prepare the logs I need in situ and haul them back to the lake. Once floating in the water, it is a simple matter of punting them across over many trips and leaving them to dry in the sun.
By comparison, assembling the clamp is trivial once the wood is ready. Realising that transporting enough mud the cover the whole thing at once by hand will take an impractical amount of effort, I set aside a day for gathering and shaping some more willow rods into a basket. At this rate, I might actually start becoming competent at that ere long.
Now the water is reasonably warm, getting mud from the shallows is actually rather pleasant, dumping scoops into the basket before emptying it onto the clamp. That said, while relatively fulfilling once, I do not think I will want to repeat the toolless labour any time soon.
The process takes five days in all, but eventually I am ready to light the thing. The effect when the burning brand is tossed in is somewhat underwhelming for the effort that went into this, but in a few days I should have fuel for my smithing. Since the clamp requires as much supervision as possible to get the best out of the lumber, my time to gather food is somewhat limited. There are fish in the lake however, so I am not totally without nearby replenishment of my limited stocks, and I can begin work on the lothblab in the meantime.
Another five days later, I carefully crack open the hardened mud with the pommel of my dagger, heart rising into my throat in anticipation. Days of effort hinge upon this moment of revelation…
My song of joy echoes across the crater as I dance in circles on the island, a lump of charcoal in either hand. Hot charcoal unfortunately, but the fact it is charcoal is more than worth the discomfort in the hand that can feel it, for soon, I shall have real tools, and then I can do anything, anything my imagination can encapsulate!
The light of my fëa shines out like a star, illuminating the evening as though the little scrap of land I call home has been thrust into the noon of tomorrow.
The next morning I stand beside the lothblab, a little sleepy from the lack of rest the night before, but the excitement continues to buoy me as only a Noldo can be by works of craft... Except perhaps a Nogoth, fine folk who understand the joy of creation that they are, even if they can be a little narrow in their focus at times.
I have no bellows, so I am doing my best creating a draft with my shirt, which is starting to show some signs of wear after a year and more of hard use and rough washing with ash and water. Sooner or later, I shall need new clothes, which will be a problem since I have never so much picked up a needle with intent to sew, let alone woven cloth from scratch.
Animal skins will suffice in a pinch, but I would rather retain some civilisation if I can. Bad enough I have a stubbly, patchy excuse for a beard making me look like some wildman, despite my efforts with the dagger to do away with Grandfather Mahtan’s incomplete blessing.
My capacity for facial hair is a mere shadow of his magnificent beard and will likely remain as such until I reach my third cycle.
The thoughts drift slowly around my mind as I wait. Most of the malachite I collected on my journey is in the lothblab, sprinkled with a few chips of mispickel. My hope is that they (or at least the useful parts) will melt together into a purified bloom I can then forge into tools.
Of course, I am mucking about with arsenic, so I would be a fool to breath too deeply of the fumes coming from the chimney. Some exposure is inevitable though and while I considered an improvised face mask, I decided wreaking my clothes or bedding was not worth the marginal benefits.
Caution and care not to do too much smithing in too short a time will keep me safe. As Father often said: Unless one is vomiting, one is fine.
Admittedly, that did not apply well to being mauled by balrogs, but I doubt many would consider a balrog to be a common workplace hazard.
When the fire begins to wane, I stop wafting and, holding my breath, lean over the low dome of the improvised bloomery, peering into the hole at its base. A rough, silvery cooling lump of metal lies in the midst of slag and leftover charcoal. Grinning, I step away. With a bit of care to remove the impurities stuck to it, that will do nicely, even if Atarinkë would blanch at my sloppy work.
I leave the pit to cool and cross the lake in search of food that is not fish. I ran out two days ago and to be honest I do not want to go to the trouble of preparing and cooking meat after the heat of the day and lack of sleep. Instead, I make do with a salad of wild fruits and vegetables that are starting to appear. Even for a small community like the strange Griffons, the pickings would be meagre, but to stave off the hunger of a single Elf, the gathering is almost trivial.
Come evening, I return and recover the now safe to handle bloom, spending much of the night carefully teasing bits of slag loose from the globule with a flint. The work continues the next morning after I sleep, gradually cold-working the metal into a useful shape. While casting would be preferable, I simply do not have the tools to safely melt the bloom again and pour it into a mould.
For that I need tongs, which will be one of the first orders of business. Before that though, I am making an axe head and a fairly large one at that. The end result will probably look like Orch scrap, but it will greatly simplify wood gathering and allow me to better hew that wood into useful shapes without risking ruining my currently irreplaceable dagger.
My plans from there include a fire-hardened spade from the wood thus gathered, which should ease the construction of future clamps. After that, a pickaxe or, more ambitiously, mattock will let me carve foundations for a more permanent residence upon the island, there being precious little soil mixed into the rocky ground. It will also make collecting more malachite easier in the future, but I shall have to do at least one more tough harvest ere I get to that, based on how much bloom I have.
Likely I will not have a permanent shelter ready for winter, but I intend to have the ground at least partially cleared by then and can make do with another hovel in the meantime, once it becomes necessary.
Life goes on as autumn descends, turning the leaves of bushes and the willow trees to a dazzling array of golds and reds. I begin to build up a stock of dried meat for the winter and go on another trip to the mountains to collect ore for smithing, during which I think I spot smoke from the hearths of Lefkiourá’s folk in the far distance to the north-west, or perhaps from another group. Busy as I am and not much desiring company, I do not approach.
I also properly explore the crater, memorising the terrain to improve my efficiency when hunting and foraging and discovering another coney warren while I am at it. I also find a few surface ore deposits around the crater rim. Though not so rich as up in the mountains, I should be spared many long trips for copper in the future, along with evidence of what I think might be magnetite, not that I will have much use for that for quite some time.
Aside from all the other logistical problems, creating moulds is going to be challenging since there are no convenient materials lying about for it, the lake being devoid of cuttlefish like I learnt with.
Not that that would be likely to survive molten iron anyway, but I could have used cuttlefish moulds for my next generation of bronze tools. I might simply have to chisel out stone ones for now, frustrating as that might be, unless I can find a decent source of clay and build a proper kiln.
For the present though, I have begun flattening the small island as much as I reasonably can with the tools I have to hand. That mostly involves clearing the scree that covers the surface and using it in combination with mud to build the rudiments of a small three walled structure that covers about a quarter of the area and could charitably be called a cottage, leaving the side facing the prevailing wind open for the sake of the lothblab.
Eventually I hope it will form the nucleus of a more permanent abode, though unlike how many houses in Tirion evolved over the years, with the rough old structures plastered over for the most part rather than totally reconstructed until no other choice presented itself, I will have to do things the Vanyarin way and totally rebuild due to a lack of foundations. Therefore, I give little care for long term durability. Come winter, I will be able to simply cover the roof with branches and it should still keep me warmer than the hovel of last year would have, though some sort of wind break for the open side is something I will have to work on.
I do not think I have been so busy since the Dagor Bragollach, but it feels good to be constructing again. That is what Noldor do best after all, and as soon I can get my hands on a real chisel, then the real fun can begin. Or rather, it will when I figure out how to get significant slabs of stone across the lake. I do not want a bridge for the sake of safety and possibly some semblance of privacy if someone happens upon me. Not that a little water would deter Griffons, since even old Lefkiourá could fly, but the isolation should lend a sense of property.
Perhaps I can eventually make a decently sized rowing boat?
Winter closes upon me earlier than expected and the days feel unusually short. During the summer I simply put the long days down to the effect of my toil playing tricks on me so that the sun seemed hardly to set, but now the nights drag on and I am sure it is some oddity with this place that is obviously not Arda.
Much as the sight of what might or might not be Elbereth's stars is a splendid thing, the long cold spells and need for fuel is problematic. As it is, I may have to start dipping into my charcoal stock, something I would rather avoid due to the effort needed to make more and the fact that the lake is beginning to fully ice over, making access to mud difficult and dangerous.
On the bright side, depending on how thick the ice gets, this gives me an idea regarding how to get stone to the island without hassle: A sled.
Since I cannot reasonably spend extended periods away from camp under these conditions, I might as well give myself something productive to do. Plus, practice in woodworking cannot hurt, such as I can manage without enough bronze to spare for nails.
The first attempt ends up as firewood, having disintegrated irreparably during testing (that is, me sitting on it in my new 'cottage'). The second attempt is little better and shares the fate of the first, as does the third, but the fourth sled is completed after about two months of work in between scrabbling for what food I can.
It is little more than a row of flat boards attached to a frame of willow rods, but by using very carefully bored holes in the boards and yet more rods I am able to pin them together, doubling up on the 'nails' to prevent similar mishaps as occurred to the first three sleds. It holds my weight, more or less, though I do not trust it at speed.
Still, it should make transporting stone from the crater edge much easier, allowing me to begin to work it into bricks. While working them in situ and bringing them back would be easier, the cold, brief daylight hours and frequent snow storms makes that impractical. It does mean however, that the ice should be sturdy enough to safely cross.
An additional advantage of working the stone on the island is that I can exactly fit the bottom level of bricks to the rock they will be placed upon, allowing a good seal without the need for mortar and extensive digging.
I shall have to watch my activity though, too much work will burn through scarce food. I also need to make a better wind guard on the mostly-open western side of the shelter than the heap of spare stone I currently have, as being able to trap more heat would improve the fuel situation. Weaving willow rods and branches ought to do the trick, barring a howling storm.
The spring thaw has come and seldom have I been more pleased for it. My lack of proper winter clothes made any extended period away from the warmth of a fire dangerous, even when carrying a burning brand with me. Nevertheless, a few brief hunting forays and trips to collect stone were necessary, the first for survival and the second for the sake of sanity as the cold months drew on.
Chiselling stone bricks is slow work, but it keeps the mind and hands occupied and can be done in the warmth of a fire. After the arts of song, Mother's chosen craft always appealed and while I cannot match her wonders, I learnt much from her growing up.
The result of the months of work is a half-finished bottom row of finely cut suevite bricks each around a quarter of a ranga on a side, partially replacing the crude rubble-work. Since I was rather bored, I began inscribing my tale thus far into the interior in Cirth, if nothing else then for aesthetic embellishment.
I might once have achieved more, but the blackened palm of my left hand proved problematic. It is not so dextrous as it used to be and I feel that shows in the quality of the work.
Unfortunately, the next weeks will be focussed on more urgent matters. Hunger is really starting to bite and I will need to catch up on missed meals. As such, my activities will primarily be back to hunting and gathering for now, much as I would like to continue toiling with the stone or expand my tool kit.
Speaking of which, I want a better chisel. While the arsenic bronze one is sturdy enough for my purposes (indeed, it is blunting slower than any wrought iron one I could make at present would in all likelihood), I have to take care not to overheat it while working lest it deform, slowing the early shaping steps greatly.
Wants are not needs however, and as such will have to take a low priority until I have stabilised my situation. Aside from food, I also need wood and ideally another round of charcoal, since I did indeed dip into my stock during the couple of blizzards that struck over the winter. I am fortunate for the protection of the crater or I am not sure my shelter would have sufficed, even with its improvised wall reinforced with leftover material from the reconstruction efforts.
Furs are also a priority ahead of the next freeze, though not so immediate.
The bear is back and probably even more hungry than I am. In fact, it came threateningly close today. An arrow to the leg gave it pause, but I doubt the flesh wound is going to deter the massive brute for long, once the initial pain wears off. I may have to slay the beast ere it gets it into its head to come to the island. Bears are good swimmers and I would not be surprised to see it making the trip it if it smells cooking meat.
To that end, flint arrows will not suffice unless I go for the eyes or somehow cause the bear to bleed out by a multitude of wounds. The latter is impractical with a single Elf and while I am theoretically a good enough archer for the former, I would rather not trust my life to such a shot if that can be helped, especially with the poor quality of my arrows and cheapness of my bow.
Even if I make no error, there is no guarantee that a shot will fly straight enough to hit such a small target at a safe distance, as a few fortunate coneys and squirrels have demonstrated. Somehow trapping the bear to pepper it would do the trick one way or the other, but I have not come across any vines or creepers sturdy enough to pose a serious hindrance as a snare and real rope is currently the stuff of fantasy.
The accuracy problem I can address, now I have some proper tools to work arrow shafts rather than simply saving the straightest willow rods I can find and have had some practice working the decent stock of feathers from the birds I have hunted into fletchings. The arrowheads I can do little about though, for I do not have the bronze to waste on all too easily lost ammunition, nor do I possess the tools to make proper broadheads even if I did. For that and any significantly sized metal object of good quality, I need an anvil, not a mostly flat lump of rock found on the ground.
I do not have the time however, to build a kiln, learn advanced pottery techniques by trial and error, put together a mould and cast an anvil from bronze produced from goodness knows how many hours of work. Producing an anvil from stone would not now be beyond my ability and might even be preferable thanks to my existing skill set, but once again a large investment of time is my foe for something I hope to soon outgrow.
The only real alternative I have is to take it on hand-to-claw. Indeed, in bygone days I might have preferred this, when I possessed one of the finest hauberks turned from the smithies of Himring, a broadsword of equal quality and a tall shield to ward against harm.
At best right now, I might be able to cobble together some leather scraps worthy of Orch filth and a few wooden boards strapped together with sinew that would likely shatter from one solid hit. Combined with the fact that while my dagger is of fine quality, it is still merely a dagger, I must dismiss the notion as absurd.
Well, I suppose I can make a cap at least. It would be better than nothing should the worst come to pass, and I could integrate it into the lining of a proper helm later. It would not be bad for the cold either.
Two days later, I am ready. I considered a trap again, but decided against it for the same reasons as before. Instead, I have opted to find a position on the crater rim, just within bowshot of the bear's den. The plan is to catch it when it is returning to sleep and thus at its most lethargic.
It might not be much of an edge, but I need it. Hence the range and difficult terrain I have placed between myself and the beast that is quickly becoming my nemesis. The cliff is not insurmountable to me and I refuse to make the assumption that the bear cannot climb what I can, but it will buy me both time and potential for a few good shots if the response to my first arrow is aggressive.
Lying in wait is a frustrating endeavour, I have better things to be doing and it is still far from warm, but the bear is an obstacle that must be removed for my safety. Eventually, my patience is rewarded by a scarred brown shape rumbling its way through the darkling landscape about a hundred rangar away. Silently, I unshoulder my bow and draw an arrow, nock it and draw the string as I take careful aim, complicated though the effort is by an ill-timed pang through my left hand.
The bear is moving into his den, I have to shoot or I shall be waiting until morning for another, worse chance.
I loose the arrow, which flies slightly off true. Rather than striking the bear through where I presume his ear canal to be, flint buries itself in the beast's neck, prompting an angry roar as he lurches around in search of the source of pain.
Ere the thing has done more than begin to move, my second arrow is nocked, drawn and loosed, this time biting into the thick hide of the bear's torso before dropping away as he jumps again, still roaring. The third arrow I take time to aim, and strikes home in the right foreleg.
The bear, seemingly unable or unwilling to find me, turns and flees into a copse of trees.
Blast.
I consider chasing him, but that would surrender my advantage of position. Maybe I would take the risk if it were lamed, but a few small trickles of blood and a slight limp are not sufficient to inspire such hope in me. I shall simply have to try again another time.
Two similarly stalemated attempts later, the bear remains only moderately injured. Yes, it is now definitely limping from repeated strikes to that right foreleg and half of one of its ears is missing as of the third hunt, but this is going nowhere and I am running out of food. I can afford one, maybe two more days ere I must brave the danger and forage.
Food is not the only thing I am short on, for while I have recovered some arrows between attempts, many were embedded in the bear and either fell out somewhere I could not find them or were broken. Since said arrows take considerable effort to make and are my primary method of hunting, I cannot keep wasting them like this, however much I might wish to throw the whole lot in the lake for their inaccuracy.
The bear however, renders my concerns moot by absence the next evening. I wait all the way to midnight just in case, but he does not return to his den. A second night's hunt after a day of much-needed foraging also proves fruitless.
Maybe he has begun associating the area with pain? Bears are intelligent animals, so he might simply have moved away again to avoid it.
That presents two questions: Where has he gone and will he stay there? He has already returned once, but that was just a bad smell. The only way to answer either is to find him again.
Wonderful, just wonderful.
The bear does not return to his old den and food pressures oblige me to take the blessing at face value, passing almost a week with almost nothing but foraging.
I am beginning to believe he might have been driven away entirely when one morning finds me occupied packing a slain hedgehog in mud for later preparation. It is a trick Tyelkormo taught me; once dried over a fire, the mud can be cracked away to easily remove the spines, simplifying dressing.
That is of course, until I hear the snuffling. Slowly, carefully, I raise my head and turn, looking for the source of the noise. Wild boar are not an unknown sight in the area and since I do not have the equipment to hunt them (which is unfortunate given their size and useful sinews, hides and tusks which would make them far more efficient targets than preying upon small game) I endeavour to keep a safe distance. Unlike a bear, who might if hungry enough consider an Elf from a culinary perspective, a boar is highly unlikely to attack unprovoked, unless it has young with it.
Unfortunately for me, the sight which greets me is not of the porcine variety but the ursine, and all too close for comfort as it rummages its way through the undergrowth.
My first impulse is to run, but that might simply attract it more than the blood already likely is. Instead, I immediately leave the hedgehog and walk away. Much as it feels wasteful, risking death or serious injury is not worth it.
An idea strikes. This bear was easily distracted by bait before, so perhaps I have the chance to be rid of him once and for all? He will have to stop to eat and I know the likely angle of his approach, so if I line up a shot from fairly close range, I might be able to get an arrow into an eye or his mouth. It is somewhat risky due to the chance of retaliation, but I am not far from the lake.
If worst comes to the worst, I can take refuge in the deep water and wait for him to leave, assuming Elven breath holds for longer than a bear's attention. If not, well, they do not like it up 'em, as one of my guards often put it.
Thus, after moving a moderate distance at a brisk but calm pace, I turn and unsling my bow, readying myself.
The bear comes back into sight, having taken his time working over to the hedgehog. I am unsure if he is aware of my presence yet, with his seemingly undivided attention focused on nosing through the undergrowth. No good shot yet, too much obstruction.
I wait with bow drawn, hardly daring to breath lest it disrupt my aim.
Wait...
Wait...
Realign...
Wait...
Loose!
Well, that could have gone worse. I was not mauled, but the lake's water is still painfully cold, particularly below the surface.
The bear, enraged, splashes around above, trying to get at me.
Actually, 'painfully' might be underselling it. I can feel my body heat being ravenously torn at as surely as the beast's claws would my flesh were I to surface.
As quietly as possible I swim away along the lakebed, allowing the churning silt to screen me from sight. If anything, breath is a secondary concern to getting out before I begin suffering frostbite. It must be below freezing down here.
Fear of drawing the bear to my home is the greater and keeps me under however, circling around the island beneath the surface before dragging myself onto the shore, gasping and shivering. My clothes are of course completely drenched and the only change I have, if it can be called that, is my blanket.
Peering cautiously around the cottage just to be sure, the beast is gone, though the water is still dark with silt and the opposite shore thoroughly churned. My bow, abandoned in my panicked flight, lies mercifully undamaged near the edge of the nearest stand of trees.
Once I have stripped down and wrapped myself in my dry blanket, it takes an enormous effort to steady my painfully reddened hands long enough to stoke up the fire, and almost as much to not get dangerously close to it.
I thought I had it, I really thought I had it that time. Then the arrow went wide. Hopefully he gets an infection from the wound, because otherwise I just almost earned myself an express ticket to Mandos for nothing. Less than nothing in fact, since I wasted a perfectly good hedgehog and an arrow I probably shan't be able to recover for that.
Stupid people say a bad workelf blames his tools, but a good workelf knows when to blame those tools. Lekta these lektaie inaccurate arrows. Perhaps I really should have taken warning from failed hunts and tossed the lot in the lake. But then I had always been far enough away that I expected some failures. Here, I had the muco-head at point blank range and yet the arrow still contrived to go a hand's span wide of his eye.
I need proper woodworking tools, but I cannot construct those until I have a better, permanent shelter. Not without wasting a lot of time and effort in the good months I have ere the next freeze, at least.
I cannot have a better shelter until I can gather enough stone.
I cannot gather more stone - or enough food to last through winter, for that matter - in safety until that beast has been slain.
I cannot kill the bear until I have better tools.
It is the proverbial chicken and egg.
I wish there was another Elf here, I need a musical session.
If asked mere weeks ago, I would not have believed that I am now resorting to chemical warfare. This Torog in ursine form however, has driven me to it.
The plan, the latest of so many of its failed ilk, is at its core a simple one:
First, I need to find as toxic a plant as possible, or preferably multiple to make absolutely sure. Nightshade, yew or similar. I do not know their exact growing ranges, but for best results a trip over the pass seems prudent. Setting up a shelter over there while I am at it would not be a bad idea either, in case I cannot deal with the bear ere autumn arrives. I would still be at risk without a decent food and fuel stock, but the winter I spent there was at least milder and food somewhat easier to come by.
Assuming success, then the next step is to cook a rabbit carcass over a fire filled with arsenopyrite in order to saturate it with arsenic fumes. I hold no illusions that this will be enough to fatally poison the bear on its own, but it certainly cannot do it any good on top of whatever other poisonous mix I can concoct as a dressing.
Steering well clear of the beast, I trudge up into the mountains once more. The journey is uneventful, in part because of the receding snow still lingering on parts of the slopes. Searching here would be a waste of time, though I make a mental note to pick up some malachite on the way back, since my stocks are running low.
From the vantage I visited before with Akakhménos, I can see a great deal of smoke far to the south-east, almost lost to the horizon. Much as it is tempting to investigate in the hope of an encounter with my acquaintances and the possibility of securing aid to deal with the bear by more respectable force of arms, the smoke is so distant that there is a good chance I would miss them.
Thus, I descend down the familiar route, beginning my search in earnest as soon as I cross the snow line. Budding deciduous trees abound, which brings me hope of finding a yew in particular.
The woods, though empty, are far from silent. Birds and other kelvar there are in abundance, and yet fewer large creatures than I would expect. I still have yet to see a deer, for example. On the second day however, I do encounter one of the beasts of which I was warned by the old druid.
The thing, which straddles the line between kelvar and olvar much as the Onodrim do, even down to its green eyes, prowls warily just beyond a stone's throw. It must know I have seen it, but either it is unsure how to react to me, or it is protecting something. Possibly I am at the bounds of its territory.
Cautiously, I approach, and the creature backs off, growling. Keeping an arrow knocked so as to draw and fire in an instant if it lunges, I continue to advance.
Whatever it is whimpers, turns and flees.
If looks betray nature, it likely has pack members nearby, so I take the opportunity to backtrack for the remainder of the day and, after sleeping up a tree just to be safe, give the area a wide berth going forward.
After about a week more with a merciful lack of canine plants, I finally come upon a cluster of yew trees at the edge of a clearing. It looks like someone inhabited the place relatively recently, going by the decaying remains of hearths and scattered detritus. Not being the best of trackers, I cannot say much more than that.
I try using of a battered basket, but it disintegrates in my hands, which probably goes some way to explaining the scent of rotting wood. As such I have to make do dumping ash leaves and buds into my pack.
Stopping when I begin to feel a little dizzy, I wash my hands in a nearby stream and examine the former camp further. Little in truth remains. Bones, a little broken pottery and some debitage in a pile on the outskirts represent the majority. Nothing worth salvaging turns up.
By the time I have thoroughly checked the entire clearing, evening is approaching and I set camp, taking advantage of the existing hearths. Storing food is going to be a problem on the way home with a pack full of poison, so I eat heartily, planning to carry only what little I can secreted elsewhere about my person.
While sleeping near the fire, I become aware of several pairs of green eyes leering out of the darkness. Tortuously dragging myself to wakefulness, I stand up and cast about. There are five of the things in total and my bow is not an option as it is currently unstrung, for I cannot risk damaging it through poor maintenance habits.
I do however, have the traveller's best friend to hand, an open fire. None of the things seem too keen on approaching it.
Thus taking up a brand, I wave it threateningly and they back off further. Since said brand is a little shorter than ideal, I toss it toward the feet of one of the creatures and find another.
The leafy warg does not go up like dry kindling, but it does yelp and bolt with the rest of the pack close behind as soon as I advance again.
Surprisingly cowardly creatures, for their impressive individual size and numbers. Not that I am complaining.
As soon as the sun breaks the horizon, I leave the clearing and head straight for the mountains. I do not know how long the yew leaves will remain potent, so haste is now vital.
Though I heard the occasional howl, the ambulatory plants made no more appearances and I travelled safely over the now-clear pass, sparing a couple of hours along the way to extract some malachite from the same vein I tapped previously.
The morning after my hasty march, since my arrival was under the light of the stars, I begin phase two. The pine leaves easily pack into the carcass, which after its smoking smells in a manner that could generously be called 'interesting'. As such, I pad it with clean meat in a bid to raise the appeal above the unpleasant smell.
I then leave it in a spot relatively close to the lake, but distinct from the previous attempt to avoid creating a pattern in the bear's mind. Then I lie in wait, ready to drive off any boars or other non-target beasts that are lured.
The bear cooperates for once in its life and ambles out of the brush toward the meat after a remarkably short few minutes. It sniffs around for a longer time and for a moment I fear it might decide that this particular meal is not one in which it wishes to partake, but eventually animalistic greed wins out and it chomps the thing down in three bites.
Not wishing a repeat of my near-fatal bath, I leave well enough alone and feel only mildly disgusted with myself as the creature plods off.
In the end, it takes a second dose (using all that remains of my supply of yew) to finish the clearly-unwell behemoth off, though slipping it said dose is less easy than last time, for the bear seems uninterested in meat, instead eating grass and other vegetable matter. An observation of its waste leads me to believe this is simply a response to sickness.
Two days later, I find success in feeding it the now somewhat less than fresh coney. That seals its fate, and a good thing too since this is costing me more mispickel than I expected to use in years.
I stalk it through the day, meandering seemingly aimlessly until it eventually slumps outside its den, limply digging at the ground with a balding, battered paw. Its only response to my approach is a grunt, though I remain cautious. Too many have fallen to overconfidence in getting into the reach of a supposedly helpless opponent, beast or sapient alike.
Knocking an arrow to finish the job however, something stays my hands. The bear must die for my knowingly temporary safety, and even if pity sways me now it will almost certainly succumb, but I used poison to bring it to this point.
However I slice it, that is Orch work and to now shoot it to death from just beyond its reach, something which may take some time to achieve with these arrows, would only confirm the foul deed. With so much arsenic and yew in its flesh, I will not be able to eat it either, so a good deal of the carcass will already be wasted, only adding further disrespect.
Thus after a couple of seconds internal debate, I ease the tension from the hunting bow and sling it, drawing my knife as I approach.
The bear shifts, but four hundred noedia of muscle and sinew may as well be inanimate wood, with so little energy behind it.
"You are a foe with whom I have struggled for months." I say, crouching beside its head and taking care to remain alert in case of any sudden movement. "A war of brawn and wits in which you won several victories. Against a son of Fëanáro, that is more that can be said of most any being. You have my respect, and I am sorry that it must be this way, for I doubt our paths should ever have crossed. Go, with the blessing of Yavanna and Aldaron."
With that, I place a hand on its head and swiftly give it what mercy I can.
I take what I can use of the carcass and burn the rest to avoid spreading contamination. Mostly, that leaves me hauling and cleaning bones for the rest of the day.
Strong bones like these will be useful for a great many things, at least. Tools to keep me alive and ornaments to keep me sane. I am leaning toward the latter, it seems more respectful to at least bring some beauty forth from the evil deed.
The real prize from a practical standpoint however, is the hide. With proper care, it will solve my winter wear woes almost singlehandedly.
The next weeks are occupied with tanning and gathering as much food as is reasonable to fully replenish my stocks and after that, I turn to quarrying.
With the weather warming, I can spend long hours at the crater edge, carefully chiselling knobbed bricks out of the living rock for use in the upper portions of the wall. The stone cooperates and so long as I do not hurry my work, my bronze chisel lasts.
Little by little, my pile grows and each evening I take a few back with me to the island, where I have taken a side out of my shelter above the existing foundation bricks. Gradually the new, straight wall rises, bringing a trace of civilisation to the place.
Indeed, by the time I awake to the first snow of the coming winter, my shelter has two complete outer walls. Though structurally solid thanks to the exact shaping of the stonework, they are unfortunately thinner than would be ideal in this climate by necessity of haulage.
There is a simple solution to that however, which does not involve doubling (or more) my stonecutting work: Wattle and daub.
Once the rudimentary roof is back on, I begin spending my free time gathering the year's crop of willow wands and weaving the narrower examples around the sturdiest of the lot. With my chisel, I then carefully bore holes through the stonework, through which yet more wands are to run, tying off with the two large frames I create.
Unfortunately, by now I am running short on time and the ground has grown too hard for my crude spade, so I make do with what I have and slot the wattle in without any daub. Using some of the spare loose stones freed from my construction work, I secure the base of the outer panels and tie off the other end of the connecting rods on the inside of the shelter, held in place by shaped bricks.
It is not ideal, but the wood will provide at least some insulation and I can cheaply replace the connecting rods when I resume work next spring.
The remaining rough stones are added to my rudimentary wind guard on the western side in the hope additional bulk will help.
Almost before I am finished, winter's claws dig in and the edges of the lake begin to freeze. The shelter proves much less draughty than before and so retains the fire's heat that much better.
With the bear’s pelt now converted into a heavy toga-like arrangement, I can risk somewhat longer excursions to squeeze food and fuel from the land, and comfort at home is all but guaranteed.
Those expeditions and tending the fire take up most of my days, but I still find some time to work on more inscriptions.
My method is a little unorthodox, working left to right and bottom to top, but so long as I am consistent, then that is no trouble. By the time the snows begin to melt, I have with painstaking care reached my own birth and filled a couple of rows of bricks without error.
I intend to spend the coming year in the same manner as the fading months of the last, more or less: Replenish stocks, quarry stone and get the skeleton of what is gradually becoming a cottage finished. If I have time left over, I will work on finishing the wattle and daub and then perhaps on a roof sturdier than random logs and sticks balanced across the walls. Maintaining the existing one is a fairly major time sink in winter in order to prevent a dangerous collapse and in summer the thing leaks.
As spring is warming toward full summer however, I am interrupted.
Stats
Page generated in 0.017 seconds
Total duration
995 users online
397,092 hits today, 1,872,792 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®