Genthus had started soaking the saltbeef in a cup of water the minute the caravan had settled on their spot for camp. Letting it leak out the mineral as he'd help unload tents and circle wagons, he'd made the time to quarter a trio of spuds and a dried carrot, throwing the latter into the cup with the beef. As fires were made, he'd retrieved his second favorite steel instrument; a wide steel pan, maybe two inches deep, well-seasoned and a bit scarred in its own right. Over the fire and with a dash of lard, it quickly became a sizzling stage for the soaked saltbeef, the smell wafting into the dusky sky. A pinch of flour, a punch of spices, and a few small, crushed chilis would see the meat browned before it was turned back into a bowl, the vegetables flung to their mercy amongst its fats and juices.
Only when they became translucent in the dark, lit through only by the fires alongside, did Genthus toss it all together with a cupfull of water, a bit of onion, and a spring of herb. As it stewed, he'd sit back and gaze at the settled caravan, scanning fire to fire, cart to cart. Idle chatter. Simple meals of jerky and coal pies and fried breads. Little spread amongst groups, the camp a scattering of nuclei. And no conversation loud enough to carry, each little dinner party content not to share.
Sucking his lip, he'd spit before pulling his own dinner from the fire, pulling a broad knife and giving it a final stir. It wasn't the waiting that had ensured he hadn't taken up caravan life. It was the gentle coldness, and how a single misfortune could dash the sum of hard-built camraderie with the only people one would speak to for weeks. Life on the road, he'd found, was skeptical.
... humming, he'd stab a piece of beef and a chunk of potato, drag it hard through the pan sauce, and then bite it off his knife quickly enough not to get burned, blowing through an open mouth to cool it as he chewed. Ah well, at least there was a new nucleus of his own to consult.
Looking for them, he'd spot Esme and Ceren behind him on the back of their wagon. Standing before taking another bite of his meal, he'd trod over, licking the knife as he arrived. Noting their empty hands, he'd look down to his food, then back, before holding the pan out toward them both, the steam and waft of spiced beef and rich, thick, stewed sauce hit both of them in a burst. "Keep fed, especially if watches are in your futures." Getting a final knife-scoop of the meal into his mouth, Genthus would reach out with his free hand, ready to grab a bag he knew he had at least a spoon in.
That is, were it not for the growing sound of hooves accented by a surprised "Riders to the south!". Genthus squinted in the darkness as, indeed, a trio of horsemen seemed to make for the camp at speed, one bearing a torch, the other two riding ahead. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he would put down the pan roast to one side of Esme, pick his teeth, and then roll his shoulders. "Be right back." He'd make for the bounds of the camp at a steady trod just as the riders approached, the woman from the Dogs, Lelindin, coming up just behind him. As the horses bore down, Genthus would raise an arm. "HALT."
A sudden pull of reigns, a few whinneys from confused horses, and a bit of skidding in mud would see the command obeyed, the three riders facing the camp sideways. Disheveled and dirty, each sported worn leather armor and besmirched heraldries of... well, frankly, it was a bit hard to make out in the dark, or so Genthus settled on thinking. Nevertheless, they were organized men, at least at a glance, easily part of some outfit themselves. One of them, the man with the torch, an elf of some height, a furred collar around his neck, a mace at his side and a shield hanging from his saddle, would stand in his stirrups and shout back. "Which of you lot is in charge? We'd have words."
Only when they became translucent in the dark, lit through only by the fires alongside, did Genthus toss it all together with a cupfull of water, a bit of onion, and a spring of herb. As it stewed, he'd sit back and gaze at the settled caravan, scanning fire to fire, cart to cart. Idle chatter. Simple meals of jerky and coal pies and fried breads. Little spread amongst groups, the camp a scattering of nuclei. And no conversation loud enough to carry, each little dinner party content not to share.
Sucking his lip, he'd spit before pulling his own dinner from the fire, pulling a broad knife and giving it a final stir. It wasn't the waiting that had ensured he hadn't taken up caravan life. It was the gentle coldness, and how a single misfortune could dash the sum of hard-built camraderie with the only people one would speak to for weeks. Life on the road, he'd found, was skeptical.
... humming, he'd stab a piece of beef and a chunk of potato, drag it hard through the pan sauce, and then bite it off his knife quickly enough not to get burned, blowing through an open mouth to cool it as he chewed. Ah well, at least there was a new nucleus of his own to consult.
Looking for them, he'd spot Esme and Ceren behind him on the back of their wagon. Standing before taking another bite of his meal, he'd trod over, licking the knife as he arrived. Noting their empty hands, he'd look down to his food, then back, before holding the pan out toward them both, the steam and waft of spiced beef and rich, thick, stewed sauce hit both of them in a burst. "Keep fed, especially if watches are in your futures." Getting a final knife-scoop of the meal into his mouth, Genthus would reach out with his free hand, ready to grab a bag he knew he had at least a spoon in.
That is, were it not for the growing sound of hooves accented by a surprised "Riders to the south!". Genthus squinted in the darkness as, indeed, a trio of horsemen seemed to make for the camp at speed, one bearing a torch, the other two riding ahead. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he would put down the pan roast to one side of Esme, pick his teeth, and then roll his shoulders. "Be right back." He'd make for the bounds of the camp at a steady trod just as the riders approached, the woman from the Dogs, Lelindin, coming up just behind him. As the horses bore down, Genthus would raise an arm. "HALT."
A sudden pull of reigns, a few whinneys from confused horses, and a bit of skidding in mud would see the command obeyed, the three riders facing the camp sideways. Disheveled and dirty, each sported worn leather armor and besmirched heraldries of... well, frankly, it was a bit hard to make out in the dark, or so Genthus settled on thinking. Nevertheless, they were organized men, at least at a glance, easily part of some outfit themselves. One of them, the man with the torch, an elf of some height, a furred collar around his neck, a mace at his side and a shield hanging from his saddle, would stand in his stirrups and shout back. "Which of you lot is in charge? We'd have words."
04-09-2024, 08:31 PM
