NickNacks
Zoinks
The Earth, despite whatever damage was done to it, would come to a balance. That was a law which governed periods of exception stretching back millions of eons, the single constant. Life might come and go, but the planet itself would always be there, silent witness to everything which was done to it.
The Grounders were the same. Silas had been taught not to expect that anyone would be kind to him, or that anything would be fair. He, like all children, was given the upbringing of a warrior, expected to excel in combat, to do what was necessary to preserve the survival of his clan. Over time, however, it had become steadily clear that these expectations didn't really compliment who he was as a person-the calculative mercilessness that his brothers in the clan was taught did not come easily to him. Too often, he would freeze up in combat, either overwhelmed or panicked. Too often, he was attempt reasoning his way out of things, rather than cutting through them. By the time he was twelve, it was clear that Silas simply would never make a good warrior-and by the time he was eighteen, he'd come to realize that for himself.
The practice of healing was sometimes scoffed at by other boys his own age, viewed as an option for cowards to still feel useful. At first, Silas had agreed, feeling cast off and ignored due to his own lack of skill. But it became clear that healing was a battle on it's own, more demanding at times than mere soldiering was. The ability to recollect which plants did what, which specific thing to mix would produce which tonic, did not come easily. And then, of course, was the fact that most of the injuries were brutal to try and staunch-limbs twisted the wrong way, or sometimes, missing entirely, or so infected that they would need to be removed. Sickness which stole over the clan like a foul rain, stealing away children and the elderly.
Healing was a different kind of combat entirely, one that no amount of muscle would affect.
He was washing bandages when they sky fell. The young man had been kneeling near a stream, letting the chilled water run over the fabric so that the rusted color would be swept off by the current, making them safe to reuse again. All at once, a sound like the scream of some long-forgotten god split the air, along with a flash of light.
With a shout, Silas toppled over onto his side near the stream, his hands clasped to his ears. For a moment or two, he wondered if the world, tired of it's abuse and suffering, had decided to exhibit one final act of wrath before blowing apart and scattering them all into the vast corners of the unknown. A second passed, then five, then ten. There was a great rumbling of the ground beneath him, as if hit with a sudden impact.
Then, all was still. An eerie silence stole over the ground. Slowly, little by little, Silas found that he was still all there and uninjured, carefully uncurling himself and drawing himself upward to his feet. The scent of smoke was heavy in the air.
A hand rested at the hilt of the sword near his belt, but a careful look around showed a trail of smoke issuing upward, great plumes which were too large for any fire. Bewildered, Silas steadied his nerves and began carefully making his way closer.
Hopefully, he would live through the encounter long enough to warn his people.
The Grounders were the same. Silas had been taught not to expect that anyone would be kind to him, or that anything would be fair. He, like all children, was given the upbringing of a warrior, expected to excel in combat, to do what was necessary to preserve the survival of his clan. Over time, however, it had become steadily clear that these expectations didn't really compliment who he was as a person-the calculative mercilessness that his brothers in the clan was taught did not come easily to him. Too often, he would freeze up in combat, either overwhelmed or panicked. Too often, he was attempt reasoning his way out of things, rather than cutting through them. By the time he was twelve, it was clear that Silas simply would never make a good warrior-and by the time he was eighteen, he'd come to realize that for himself.
The practice of healing was sometimes scoffed at by other boys his own age, viewed as an option for cowards to still feel useful. At first, Silas had agreed, feeling cast off and ignored due to his own lack of skill. But it became clear that healing was a battle on it's own, more demanding at times than mere soldiering was. The ability to recollect which plants did what, which specific thing to mix would produce which tonic, did not come easily. And then, of course, was the fact that most of the injuries were brutal to try and staunch-limbs twisted the wrong way, or sometimes, missing entirely, or so infected that they would need to be removed. Sickness which stole over the clan like a foul rain, stealing away children and the elderly.
Healing was a different kind of combat entirely, one that no amount of muscle would affect.
He was washing bandages when they sky fell. The young man had been kneeling near a stream, letting the chilled water run over the fabric so that the rusted color would be swept off by the current, making them safe to reuse again. All at once, a sound like the scream of some long-forgotten god split the air, along with a flash of light.
With a shout, Silas toppled over onto his side near the stream, his hands clasped to his ears. For a moment or two, he wondered if the world, tired of it's abuse and suffering, had decided to exhibit one final act of wrath before blowing apart and scattering them all into the vast corners of the unknown. A second passed, then five, then ten. There was a great rumbling of the ground beneath him, as if hit with a sudden impact.
Then, all was still. An eerie silence stole over the ground. Slowly, little by little, Silas found that he was still all there and uninjured, carefully uncurling himself and drawing himself upward to his feet. The scent of smoke was heavy in the air.
A hand rested at the hilt of the sword near his belt, but a careful look around showed a trail of smoke issuing upward, great plumes which were too large for any fire. Bewildered, Silas steadied his nerves and began carefully making his way closer.
Hopefully, he would live through the encounter long enough to warn his people.