Prompt:Winter is at the door, and there isn't much time left before it claws its way in. If you haven't started preparing for the bitter cold and lack of resources, it might be a very lean season indeed. Are you confident in your preparations? Are you scrambling to scrounge up what you can? Maybe working in a group would make things easier... Whether your 'taur thinks they have sufficient supplies and shelter or not, one thing is certain: winter will arrive regardless.
When all was said and done, harvest was over, and the gardens around his temple home were put to rest. With his tattered makeshift broom he swept the last of the fallen leaves into piles and scattered the detritus over the garden beds, laying a thick blanket down to decompose and lay down nutrients for the spring. Altars were kept clear, offerings exchanged to remain fresh, and incense burned, spirits and ancestors shown the proper reverence as he had been raised to do.
The chill breezes of autumn grew more bitter, more biting, as the season started to change. The days were growing shorter, the daylight giving away to the twilit darkness and gloom that characterised the lean season. It was time for the dark ending of the year. It was more than a time of cold, and snow, and bitter bitiing winds and, for those who needed it, hibernation. It was a time of peace, at least to him, and contemplation. A time to take stock and recharge. To sweep out the olda and get rid of all the things that were no longer necessary. A time to become the better version of themselves in preparation for the coming year.
Taking stock, Nostalion considered. It had been a fairly easy year. There hadn’t been any crazy disasters, no events that took him out of his comfort zone. Nothing that took him away from his sanctuary. From tending his gardens or from whittling his wooden figures. From his quiet simple life in the forest, in his abandoned temple. It had been much easier than the past , than the time before he found himself here... which was a haze in his mind.
Gray phantoms that would randomly grasp him with nebulous fears and concerns. Torment him with visions of things real or not. Phantoms of the past, or figments of dreams, with no way to determine what was real and what wasn’t. Hazy images of places far away with a herd that seemed familiar, but at the same time, didn’t seem like any he should know. Including a few who closely resembled him. Who he felt were important to him but not. And then the feelings of helplessness. Of fear and terror. Of feeling his voice trapped in his throat, unable to escape. The vulnerablilty... how he couldn’t speak. Not then, and never since. The inability to articulate his thoughts and emotions...
He had his ramshackle temple, and the overgrown gardens and surrounds. A few raised beds that enabled him to be mostly self-sufficient. He had beds with vegetables and berries and different things to eat, ones with herbs he used to make his ointments and salves, herbs that he could use to heal, and others he could use for harm... A small orchard with both apples and pears, once well loved and so carefully tended, but now overgrown, trimmed back some but not yet back to its former glory. No longer a holy place of worship, it was now the domicile of a single ‘taur.
It was a quiet sanctuary in the forest just outside of village – near enough he could go and get supplies if needed, just a half day’s journey round trip, but not too close to be constantly bombarded by unwanted company. He had his space, his peace and quiet, but was also there to offer shelter to those who needed it, not that he advertised the fact. Those who needed him would find him.
As the weather turned colder, he took stock of his home. The temple, though old and abandoned for however long before he came upon it, was in decent repair. The roof and walls, though a little bit drafty, were sturdy and held well. Any draft was quickly sought out and patched up. They would keep him warm and sheltered from the winter chill and the snow. The packed earthen floors were carefully maintained with the same tattered broom he used to sweep the paths around the temple. A bundle of dried reeds piled near the room he turned into a sleeping chamber. Carefully kept, and even more carefully changed out as needed.
The root cellar was well packed. Shelves filled to the brim with boxes of tubers, jars of other produce. Barrels taking up most of the available floor space chock full. The orchard and the gardens had produced well, and he had been able to trade for other needed items he didn’t grow or couldn’t make for himself. Sacks of flour and grain, all he could use and more than enough for winter.
And though the weather had turned, it didn’t look to be a harsh winter, and there was plenty of game around to supplement his supplies. The lean-to he built outside the main building to store fresh game was currently empty, but he had space enough, and his supply of arrows and his hunting knives were all good. All in all, Nostalion looked to be in good shape for the lean season to come.
After a quick turn about the grounds, and tour of the main building to ensure that he had everything he needed to survive the coming season, he made note of what supplies he had and what he might still need – a few things that were absolutely necessary, and a few items that were luxuries, indulgences he felt he could justify – and what he had to trade, items he would bring with him the next day, when he went to the village for the last planned trip of the year the next day. He gathered the supplies and loaded the hand cart for the journey. Hopefully the next day would be crisp and clear, so he could have a good easy time. So he could get what he needed and return home.
Return to the peace and quiet of his temple. To his quiet, solitary life. The Old Man in The Woods, back to his legend. The gentle, mute hermit in his forest sanctuary, who gardened, healed and offered his home to those in need. But now it was time for him to keep to himself, to replenish his spirit, and to end the year right, to sweep away what was no longer good and necessary. To get rid of the shadows and phantoms, and to let in the light.
WC: 1138
When all was said and done, harvest was over, and the gardens around his temple home were put to rest. With his tattered makeshift broom he swept the last of the fallen leaves into piles and scattered the detritus over the garden beds, laying a thick blanket down to decompose and lay down nutrients for the spring. Altars were kept clear, offerings exchanged to remain fresh, and incense burned, spirits and ancestors shown the proper reverence as he had been raised to do.
The chill breezes of autumn grew more bitter, more biting, as the season started to change. The days were growing shorter, the daylight giving away to the twilit darkness and gloom that characterised the lean season. It was time for the dark ending of the year. It was more than a time of cold, and snow, and bitter bitiing winds and, for those who needed it, hibernation. It was a time of peace, at least to him, and contemplation. A time to take stock and recharge. To sweep out the olda and get rid of all the things that were no longer necessary. A time to become the better version of themselves in preparation for the coming year.
Taking stock, Nostalion considered. It had been a fairly easy year. There hadn’t been any crazy disasters, no events that took him out of his comfort zone. Nothing that took him away from his sanctuary. From tending his gardens or from whittling his wooden figures. From his quiet simple life in the forest, in his abandoned temple. It had been much easier than the past , than the time before he found himself here... which was a haze in his mind.
Gray phantoms that would randomly grasp him with nebulous fears and concerns. Torment him with visions of things real or not. Phantoms of the past, or figments of dreams, with no way to determine what was real and what wasn’t. Hazy images of places far away with a herd that seemed familiar, but at the same time, didn’t seem like any he should know. Including a few who closely resembled him. Who he felt were important to him but not. And then the feelings of helplessness. Of fear and terror. Of feeling his voice trapped in his throat, unable to escape. The vulnerablilty... how he couldn’t speak. Not then, and never since. The inability to articulate his thoughts and emotions...
He had his ramshackle temple, and the overgrown gardens and surrounds. A few raised beds that enabled him to be mostly self-sufficient. He had beds with vegetables and berries and different things to eat, ones with herbs he used to make his ointments and salves, herbs that he could use to heal, and others he could use for harm... A small orchard with both apples and pears, once well loved and so carefully tended, but now overgrown, trimmed back some but not yet back to its former glory. No longer a holy place of worship, it was now the domicile of a single ‘taur.
It was a quiet sanctuary in the forest just outside of village – near enough he could go and get supplies if needed, just a half day’s journey round trip, but not too close to be constantly bombarded by unwanted company. He had his space, his peace and quiet, but was also there to offer shelter to those who needed it, not that he advertised the fact. Those who needed him would find him.
As the weather turned colder, he took stock of his home. The temple, though old and abandoned for however long before he came upon it, was in decent repair. The roof and walls, though a little bit drafty, were sturdy and held well. Any draft was quickly sought out and patched up. They would keep him warm and sheltered from the winter chill and the snow. The packed earthen floors were carefully maintained with the same tattered broom he used to sweep the paths around the temple. A bundle of dried reeds piled near the room he turned into a sleeping chamber. Carefully kept, and even more carefully changed out as needed.
The root cellar was well packed. Shelves filled to the brim with boxes of tubers, jars of other produce. Barrels taking up most of the available floor space chock full. The orchard and the gardens had produced well, and he had been able to trade for other needed items he didn’t grow or couldn’t make for himself. Sacks of flour and grain, all he could use and more than enough for winter.
And though the weather had turned, it didn’t look to be a harsh winter, and there was plenty of game around to supplement his supplies. The lean-to he built outside the main building to store fresh game was currently empty, but he had space enough, and his supply of arrows and his hunting knives were all good. All in all, Nostalion looked to be in good shape for the lean season to come.
After a quick turn about the grounds, and tour of the main building to ensure that he had everything he needed to survive the coming season, he made note of what supplies he had and what he might still need – a few things that were absolutely necessary, and a few items that were luxuries, indulgences he felt he could justify – and what he had to trade, items he would bring with him the next day, when he went to the village for the last planned trip of the year the next day. He gathered the supplies and loaded the hand cart for the journey. Hopefully the next day would be crisp and clear, so he could have a good easy time. So he could get what he needed and return home.
Return to the peace and quiet of his temple. To his quiet, solitary life. The Old Man in The Woods, back to his legend. The gentle, mute hermit in his forest sanctuary, who gardened, healed and offered his home to those in need. But now it was time for him to keep to himself, to replenish his spirit, and to end the year right, to sweep away what was no longer good and necessary. To get rid of the shadows and phantoms, and to let in the light.
WC: 1138