Orphan At The Edge Of The World 9 Oew 8

Over the next three days, Orison established a new routine he planned to keep on the road. In the mornings he would do Morrel's self torture exercises which he practiced to the letter out of a superst.i.tious fear the middle aged wood elf would find out. Orison caught on that the training he was doing had some pretty amazing effects and he didn't want to lose it by breaking Morrel's only rule. Do as he said or do it without him. Whatever the secrets hidden within it, the training kept the old elf as spry and vivacious in the last third of his life as most were in their first third. That was with the man having some form of allergy to vegetables which apparently wasn't an actual wood elf thing.

At midday, while the horses were catching a breather, Orison would spend a little time knocking the dust off his pitiful sword and board skills. He didn't have much talent at it but it did get him a little experience facing those who were. Besides, since the soldiers and even the band marshal seemed to take some enjoyment from knocking him on his b.u.t.t, easing the edge of bad feelings from their band member's death, it was a win-win in Orison's book.

In the evenings he wasn't quite as organized. The first night he wrote out the model with notes for Degree s.h.i.+ft and Candle Flame before spending a meager hour translating the cracked cipher, a cipher type that was apparently quite commonly used by Dominion mages for a time. The next night, he focused entirely on translating until Thorrinson handed him two shakily drawn models filled with mistakes of a sloppy scribing nature, much easier to fix than misplaced model sections like the axe was.

On the third night, he rolled the idea back and forth a few times before throwing a bit of caution to the wind and created a scroll of Summon Stupid Horse. Fortunately, he only screwed up the first time and succeeded the second leaving just enough imbued ink for a third. The fourth morning saw him napping on the cart until nearly midday due to underestimating the time and energy required, especially when the first attempt was a waste.

***

In theory, scroll making and enchanting are fundamentally the same. In reality they're significantly different, mostly due to equipment and materials needed. Enchantments required a special type of work bench capable of holding a model in stasis while being filled with spirit essence to make it alive and grant it longevity with the final step of transfixing the model onto a compatible item completing the work. Scroll making benefited from having the workbench but it wasn't necessary as long as the mage in question was familiar enough with the spell to line up the whole model with what they had drawn on the scroll in one go. A scroll also needed spirit essence but only enough to transfix the magic model to it's written counterpart.

There was no doubt that having a workbench hold the model while the mage traced it onto a scroll not only almost guaranteed it would fix properly, it would take a lot less time and effort. Orison, luckily, had a cheat. Spirit essence and magic had a slightly magnetic and harmonizing effect on one another. By grinding up the petty soul gem and mixing it into his ink instead of using magic compatible metal or gem dust, the ink would auto-correct. Intentionally miscasting the spell at the scroll by not allowing the model to charge fully could even correct large mistakes. The caveat of this method, however, required the mage to keep his focal and casting point at the same spot for all casts.

Being relatively experienced in theory but a beginner in practice, Orison would obviously need a lot of auto-correcting which is where he screwed up. While waiting for his magic to recharge, he lost his focal point and on his next intentional miscast, skewed and blurred his model beyond repair. Sheepishly, he took out a grease pencil and drew a tiny dot on the next scroll then started again.

***

During the midday break, Orison sought out Thorrinson and handed him the scroll. While the man looked at it in confusion, Orison brought out Stupid Horse and explained all the key words, as well as warning about the sluggish steering.

Thorrinson tried to hand it back after Orison dismounted while he said, "I can't accept this. A trade was fine but this could be seen as bribery. Even if I was off duty I couldn't accept this. It would easily sell for fifty gold maybe more... I don't even know how much its worth but it can't be lower than fifty."

Orison shook his head and said, "Whether you meant to or not, you gave me the key to unlocking my dead elf's journal when you told me about yours. All said and done you'd be fairly generous to call us even."

Seeing Thorrinson was going to be stubborn about it, Orison took the issue before the marshal and his mother. After explaining the whole thing, the marshal gave grudging permission while Droya praised Orison for being fair in his dealings, expressing a bit of disappointment over not getting one first. Orison explained that he only wanted to pay off his debts before making presents and that she was the very first one he planned on making one for.

Half annoyed and half amused, Orison spent the rest of the day getting interrupted from his spell model studying to hear some pearl of wisdom from one or another of the band. The band marshal looked upon it all smugly as if to say, 'that's what you get'. Though the bulk of them were superst.i.tious nonsense and funny anecdotes, some where genuinely useful. One or two might even save his life someday.

Towards the end of the day, instead of setting up camp the band picked up pace a bit to reach their past midway journey point, a quaint village with a nice inn. As they neared town, Orison jumped out of the cart and summoned Stupid Horse, sidling up to the cart to let his mom on.

The marshal asked, "Why didn't you just ride it the whole time instead of bearing the indignity of riding in a prison cart?"

"It's hard to do a lot of things on horseback that are relatively easier on a benched cart," Orison said as he covertly pointed at the more prominent steel studs on his mother's leather armor behind him.

His eyes followed Orison's finger to Droya's well protected a.s.sets. With dawning realization and a slight blush mostly hidden by skirted helmet and well kept beard, he said, "Oh, I see. That's understandable."

Droya, who had long grown numb to the casual ogling of men, remained oblivious for once.

The next hour was full of activity as the band marshal, Trygve, had the men unload everything in the cart except for the remains, into everyone's respective rooms. Since Orison wasn't the only one confused, he hoped it meant Trygve, whose name he finally managed to memorize, was trading out for more appropriate transportation.

Once the marshal had returned, Orison grabbed an opportunity to speak with him when Droya went to relieve herself. "Uh, Marshal Trygve, are the server women here really friendly or..."

The marshal flashed Orison his wedding ring and replied tactfully, "I've long since stopped actively noticing these things but at this Inn the girls open to easing a soldier's loneliness tuck a red kerchief in their ap.r.o.n pocket, an unused white one means they're looking for something more than coin. There used to be a blue one but it caused a lot of troubles."

Orison didn't rise to the bait of the blue kerchief which would end up turning into a tale that would last well past when his mom would be back. Instead he said, "I know that most of the stuff your solders told me was more to have fun at my expense than because they were seriously sniffing for a reward or something. Some of what they told me may not have had much value to them but it did to me."

Trygve said, "I can't stop what I don't see but so we're clear, I sure as the abyss won't cover your tail if your mother comes to tan it. Also, Thorrinson might not turn down a friendly visitor but he'll wish he had if his wife finds out and we're close enough to Whitewater that she might."

Das.h.i.+ng off, Orison managed to set up a pleasant surprise for the other three band members after a few embarra.s.sing moments were the girls thought he was trying to climb the ladder to adulthood a little too early for them to be comfortable about. So the unsuspecting soldiers wouldn't be completely blind-sided or mistake the girls' intentions for visiting unsolicited, Orison asked them to relay a message. The pearls of wisdom given during the day have returned as a pearl of comfort at night.

After 'tipping' the girls generously from his personal fund, an open secret Droya let him keep, Orison returned to his seat and dug into his meal with zeal. Determined to make the most of their stay at an inn, he splurged for a hot bath then burned the midnight oil studying his new collection of models until Droya jokingly complained in the adjoining room that all his strange mutterings was giving her nightmares.

By that point, Orison was perfectly fine with going to bed because he had just grasped the final mysteries of the first spell from the previously ciphered section of the journal. With the giddiness of a child at Christmas, Orison urged himself to sleep so the new day could come a little faster. After all, Fire Shot was not the kind of spell one could practice indoors.

***

In the predawn glow, Orison woke up with a pep in his step that nothing to do with his boots but it was short lived as he realized that the inn had no place for him to practice. The morning servers were making their preparation and some of the merchants pa.s.sing through had servants running errands.

Orison thought, "Fine. Delay the pleasure and all that. We'll be on the road soon enough."

He slogged back to his room and did a set of light stretching before setting up his props for pole bridging. During the routine, a sliver of time left till the sun crested the horizon, one of the servers from the previous night slunk into his room and froze. Hand half-way to the bare table in his room, she turned and noticed the boy was not only up but doing some strange suspended stretch with a lit candle on a metal plate under him.

Dividing a bit of his attention to the server he asked, "What are you doing?"

In the surreal situation, the server said, "I, uh, don't feel right taking your money. I was returning it."

Orison wouldn't believe such a statement under normal circ.u.mstances but the undeniable glitter of coins in her hand was hard to deny and there wasn't anything aside from empty table where she was reaching.

Dividing a little more attention, he took in the bit of dark circles under her eyes but lack of anything telling on the attire she was wearing aside from a bit of wet spot on her shoulder and said, "Comfort takes many different fo- erms... ngh... d.a.m.n candle..." He leaned forward until his hand touched the ground and dismounted his heels then continued as he stood up, "Keep the coins and consider this..."

He took a bit of time to explain to her what a therapist, though he had to play loose and dirty with some concepts to shake off the cold chills, was and gave her some ideas of what she could say the next time she should encounter a similar situation.

She looked at the boy pensively and said, "People can do that for a livelihood?"

As he covertly healed the blister on his rear and cleaned the smudge off his training pants, Orison said, "Yes, as long as they have two qualities. They have to be a good listener and they have to be good at keeping secrets. It's probably best to keep advice to a minimum but giving people some options they may not have thought of can be helpful if you're confident they're good. People like more options. Be open minded as you can be. Practice keeping a pleasant and caring face. The rest you can teach yourself with time and experience."

She mulled over his words for a bit and said, "That's specific. I can't see anything wrong with what you said but why would people pay money for it? Well, besides those who don't want to stand out when others are after the usual or someone's treating, I mean."

Orison, realizing he was being a little TOO out of character for his age, dialed back and said, "I just read about it but even a kid like me knows that when something hurts, talking about it makes things hurt less. Slap, like a yellow or orange kerchief next to the red and when someone asks what it means just say you're a good listener who can keep their mouth shut and see how it goes."

She nodded and was walking out of the room when she suddenly turned back around and said, "I hope you won't say anything about the soldier I visited. Let them think we had a good time. If you get a chance to tell him in private, I've a shy friend who- What am I saying to a kid? I-Just let him know I'm here if he's feeling lonely." She dashed away looking a little embarra.s.sed.

Less than two seconds later, one of the three honor band members he had yet to memorize the name of but wasn't the one who spent the night with the server he was talking to, came in looking confused before giving the half dressed Orison a knowing leer and letting him know his new transportation was ready down stairs.

Taking a quick moment to wipe down, Orison got dressed while the solder knocked on Droya's door. While she went through her wake-up routine, Orison grabbed a quick bite and headed out of the inn, eager to get back on the road. He even lent a helping hand to load the covered wagon with cus.h.i.+oned seats to speed things along.

By the time Droya had gotten down her breakfast and loaded up into the wagon, the soldier who served as the scout was returning to make report to Marshal Trygve. Upon seeing that particular soldier's face, Orison suddenly realized why the server entrusted him to deliver her message. Who knows what time the poor sod had to pull himself together to get such a jump on everyone else.

Not being one to miss an opportunity to kill three birds with one stone, Orison approached the marshal and asked if he could ride with the scout to get a feel for the position and expand his horizons some. While weighing the security risk and inconvenience, Trygve cleared it with Droya who hesitated for a moment, giving off all kinds of body language of wanting some heart to heart time with her son, before before they both temporarily gave in to the request. To sweeten the deal, Orison promised to keep Stupid Horse summoned so the marshal wouldn't need to lend his to the scout.

With warnings to listen, be mindful and return to the wagon immediately if asked to Orison and a few instructions to the mildly put out soldier, boy and band scout were slowly gaining distance in front of the rest. The relatively open area for miles in front of them made for great opportunities to pa.s.s a private message and practice magic on the road without spooking the flesh and blood horses behind them.

In the beginning things were rather awkward since the scout wasn't used to sharing a mount much less controlling a summoned one like Stupid horse. Orison wasn't exactly used to having his back glued to another man's chest either. However, after Orison vocalized his revelation that 'a padded leather chair back was a great deal more comfortable than a studded leather one topped with morning-star shoulder ma.s.sagers' and the scout got a handle of bow draw while guiding Stupid Horse, both of them were a great deal more at ease with each other.

By the time they were getting close to their midday stop, the scout had opened up a bit and started sharing some pointers on horsemans.h.i.+p, tracking and game hunting with a bow. For his part, Orison shared some simple herbalism which the scout mostly knew about already but managed to learn a couple new ones and a good deal more uses. They even amused themselves a bit by the scout tossing some pebbles further up the road while Orison tried to hit them with Fire Shot until he almost set a brush fire.

Figuring there would be no better time, Orison pa.s.sed on the server's message as much as memory and creative wording for tact would allow. The sudden stiff silence that followed prompted Orison to say, "I'm an orphan, right? Little over a week after I'm adopted, my father has to leave to do important things. A week after that, while my mom has to make a provisions trip into town I feel compelled to follow a firelight that's a little too close to the house for comfort where I gotta kill for the fist time in my life or watch on as a Marshland girl gets her heart carved out. Yay... The very next morning, home invaders try to sack the house and I'm almost killed.

"Skip forward a little shy of two months and I'm trying to hold my mom while she bawls her eyes out because the man she let herself fall in love with isn't coming home. Jump forward a little more and I'm killing a man for the second time- the sec-"

Orison took a moment to get his warbling voice back under control.