Morning's light was late in arriving at that cold camp. All that meant for weary travelers was that they decamped in the dark. Ulric didn't know how they knew what time it was but he didn't bother asking questions. He was too anxious to get back to the glade, this close it called to him. Home sweet home.
They traveled those last kilometers slowly, visibility was improving steadily but, as Ulric knew intimately, the wood beyond the glade was wild and strictly ankle-breaker country. Soon enough, Ulric's eyes took in the familiar sight of the break in the towering floor to the sky. The Twins, still too low to be seen directly, nevertheless poured light into the clearing as they came out into the open. It was, more or less, as Ulric remembered. Low shrubs dotting small rises, saplings rising only a few dozen feet, scrawny compared to their aeonic brethren, and various other isolated cousins, including a stand of [Steelwood], some of them coppiced beneath a layer of white powder. It seems the leaf fall had mostly buried the outer edges of the glade and he could not see the berry bushes that lined its borders with the vast forests beyond. On top of the great leaves, the powdery snow had fallen deeply into this canopy hole, it was at least a meter deep already. A grey cloud at the edge of his sight promised more yet.
There, in the approximate middle of the glade, lie the corpse of the dead [Godtree]. At its base, on the Southward facing end of the clearing, reared up the broken crown of roots and the shattered stone beneath. Now buried in ice and snow, lay his rockpool. There, inscribing a modest half-acre semicircle, was visible the spiked fence that demarcated Ulric’s homestead.
A satisfied sigh escaped his lips. He felt like it had been an age since he'd left. For all that he'd been enamored of the Elven woodlands below, had been astounded by their architectural splendor, and had been granted ultimate comfort in the fortress city, here was his realm. But he had not long to enjoy it. Pressing matters were at hand, there were invaders on the plateau and he was going to do something about it, if possible.
Best case scenario, some very sneaky merchants or smugglers were hoping to make a bit of quick coin exploring the riches of the newly explorable plateau. Worst case scenario the interlopers were scouts of the same flavor as those marauders who had kidnapped Brighteyes. It wasn't likely that a great many had managed to infiltrate the [Ancient's Gate], too good was the screening of the Elves. A small band, under cover of magical warding and excellent intel, perhaps. But a regiment of troops? Unlikely.
Signs of Ulric’s habitation could be seen, tanning racks suspended here and there on the sides of the half-buried giant, a large snow-covered mound that would be his wood splitting block, the dusted outdoor firepit and tripod for hanging cookpots, and two stacked round smokers. Various other projects were largely invisible under the fresh powder. Mostly though, was the comforting sight of the large shelter Ulric had built into the side of the [Godtree] trunk. His craftsmanship was sound, the notched and stacked limbs, their gaps packed with clay and moss, stood strong. The angled bark-shingled roof, with a rock and clay chimney rising from one corner, its chimney cap of bark, was proud over the simple door that beckoned to shelter within, if only he dug away the snow bank blocking it.
Without preamble, Ulric knelt next to the door and scooped snow away from it, rapidly clearing the way. The trident, whilst an excellent pokey tool, was not so wonderful a snow shovel and Ulric bent over to use his hands to get the thing done. A minute later he had enough of the powdery stuff shifted to get at the woven sapling and clay-wattled portal, with its sturdy wood handle.
"Well, here we are. My home is open to you all, such as it is." Announced Ulric, pulling open the door to his shelter to reveal the rustic interior and its meagre comforts.
Geyrt looked skeptical, at best, at the cold, yet dry, interior with its low stone firepit, two pole beds mounded high with hides. Along the walls ran a trio of rough timber shelves, filled by crudely fired pots and jars alongside more durable [Steelwood] cylinders, shaved of their bark and smoothly carved. Each container was lidded tightly by glassresin lipped lids. A couple of tripod stools sat against a wall, and a large stone and clay hearth dominated one corner of the hewn room, its chimney rising out through the roof as from outside. The chimney cap from outside was seen to allow the smoke from the firepit to draft out, but a set of notched limbs allowed a slat of wood to be slid into place, block it and thus reducing the heat loss from the shelter when cooking wasn’t occurring.
Despite her habit of sleeping in the rough on patrols, the Elf woman was also of a high status amongst her people, who had been cultivating their lands for thousands of years with artistry and mastery, and, most importantly, time, to refine their dwellings. The craftsmanship here was less than impressive.
"This hovel is where my dearest brother was housed to recover from his wounds?" She asked with not a little disbelief.
"It's a little cozier when it isn't buried in snow," Ulric said defensively, "I might also add that I had to build everything here, alone, with this axe on my pack, some homemade carving knives, in between hunting monsters, gathering forest edibles, the ones that I could figure out wouldn't kill or cripple me with toxins. Oh! And also, bear in mind, I was dropped, naked, into a strange world a bare seven-moon cycles ago from a world of technological miracles you couldn't imagine, where knowing how to weave a rope from bark and grass was considered an oddity. You'll have to forgive the rough edges Princess, I've been busy."
The other soldiers smiled. His Shadow frowned but didn't refute the point. In truth, they were not completely unimpressed with this pocket of rudimentary civilization. The materials to work with were not optimal, from a construction point of view. [Steelwood] was a wonderful material when the finished product was presented. It was a bastard to actually work with. The same could be said of the lithic [Godtrees] whose wood was nigh indestructible outside dedicated application of fire and a tool of at least [Forest Lord] bone hardness, driven by nigh inhuman strength. And a sturdy mallet.
Christ broke the slight tension with his usual ease.
"We accept the hospitality of your home Ulric Glade Chief, thank you. If it please you, we will establish a base camp just near to your most economical apartments and set about clearing the area of snow. It is likely that we will need to scout outwards in all directions, possibly for days, to determine the extent of the infiltration. We must also construct sleds to transport whatever goods you have deemed necessary for our return to Irielhos."
"Right, right, of course, you're right Christ." Ulric conceded, ignoring his Shadow's disapproval, "We'll get this place cleaned up and squared away in no time. How do you want to handle the scouting parties?" He asked, after a bit of ear twitching and frowning deliberation.
Christ took a few moments to think it over before opening and quickly closing his mouth. Then he took a few more. Eventually he worked it out to his satisfaction.
"I am worried Ulric." The young Captain bluntly stated, his hand stroked the hilt of his saber absently.
"That our territory was not once, but twice penetrated without an alarm raised is something unheard of. Normally, the Otherkin of Prespang come stomping around with soldiers in formation, trying to bludgeon their way where they are not welcome. Then we draw them into the wood and bleed them until they have decided they have watered Orlethrem enough and they go away for a hundred or so years." Admitted the normally good-humored Elf, his Red and Bronze flecked eyes drawn down in concern.
"This tactic, this approach, that I would not have said was possible, of making inroads so far into Elf land through stealth, is new. Its success is new, rather." He said, worry creeping into his tone.
"It's a thrice damned disaster is what it is." Chimed in Cleaver, almost growling the words out from behind clenched teeth.
Christ acknowledged the warrior with calming gesture before he continued.
"It means that whoever is behind these movements has studied our tactics, has the wisdom and resources to undermine our regular defenses. Normally I would have us rove out separately, going wide in each direction, to spiral inwards and thus catch the invading force in a net. If we cannot be guaranteed to be in control of first contact though, I will not risk Iriel'en lives, allow us to be ambushed alone by unknown foes. No, we will rove out in a team of three, the triads more like standard Hunter protocols in dangerous territory, and zig-zag to find signs, each day in a new direction. It is slower but risks less. The remaining soldier will assist you and your Shadow with tasks here in home base." Concluded the young understudy of Idra'se.
That was good enough for Ulric.
As much as he wanted to follow the buzzing impulse at the base of his spine, to just head out and start prowling around for whoever was infringing on his home, it wasn't a good idea. Luck had been on his side so long ago when he'd rescued Brighteyes. He'd been in a fantastic ambush position, intended for [Bolt Deer] or [Bladefern Elk], but just as effective for men, and had had the advantage of two wounded Greater beasts for distraction. Walking into an ambush wouldn't yield fruit he'd care to eat. If these Elves were anything to go by, coming against a party of prepared elite scouts, who knew he was coming things could get ugly, quickly. But damned if he didn't still want to go out there right this moment and find out who had the brass to come stepping around his backyard, even so. Age-old wisdom spoke to him "Discretion is the better part of valor". The instinctual urging, a tiny, but forceful voice, meanwhile, ranted more along the lines of "Kill, Kill, Kill the white man, kill him until he is dead." Ahh, sweet duality.
Ulric distracted himself by inviting the Elves to make themselves at home, which, to them, meant to begin unpacking their gear and finding places to lay their bedrolls, while he saw to a fire. Despite his offer to take a rest inside the only structure in the clearing, the warrior troupe set up their tents in the flat spot Ulric liked to use to split wood and make with the crafting. For Ulric, first priority was getting the hearth and firepit inside his shelter lit, to give his guests a windless place to warm themselves, the chill of a flameless night still upon all their bones.
It didn't take long to clear off his stack of firewood and bring a few smaller logs to dry. Kindling was provided by looking in on his reserve of dried wood that lay underneath his bed. A quick search of the glade yielded some tinder, fluff pods from a tall variety of plant that liked to grow in the low places of the clearing, places that remained shaded and wet, or, now, frozen and buried beneath near two meters of snow from drifts. The [Glade Cat-tail] stalks tasted like celery, their roots like broccoli, and their fluff burned like a resinous torch. A most useful plant it was and Ulric had long ago memorized its preferred growing locations.
Once the fire was well established, his escort gladly packed into the shelter and warmed themselves by the flame. As the deepening cold left their bodies he extracted his large woven [Steelwood] bark water pot, drew water from the rockpool, which required bashing a hole in the ice with his axe, and hung it over the flame on a pole tripod. Basket weaving had never really been his schtick but it had proven itself a near miraculously useful craft out here, where carving jars or throwing a clay pot was an incredibly large time investment and easily failed due to faults in wood grains or cracks in clay during firing. The best part was that the [Steelwood] bark strips, true to their namesake, carried heat easily through to the water within but burned only with difficulty.
Soon enough, the water boiled and he threw a selection of dried tea leaves from one of the leather pouches hanging from a drying rack strung across the back wall of the shelter. His guests seemed faintly amused at the primitive, if thorough, show of hospitality. They were all of them astonished by the rich flavor of the tea though and Christ told him that whatever that plant was, Ulric should never tell anyone where it grew until he was paid dearly. By their expressions it was near to Elf catnip. The warriors all sat back with contented sighs as the aroma and warmth set them to ease. The sight of Geyrt's blissful smile while she sipped the tea put a slight stirring into the host and he made an effort to look elsewhere. Best not to get any ideas, it had been a while now since dearest Hal'et had made waves with him. It sure was nice to be appreciated though, and the pleased expressions of his guests was a surprisingly welcome sight to the formerly hermetic man.
Ulric was inspired to grab one of the last preserved shoulder roasts of [Forest Lord] in his meat cache. There was precious little left of the great animal. Knowing now what he did about the creature he couldn't help a little sadness thinking about it. He owed much to that last, insane, denatured guardian of the [Plateau of Ancients], and wished that things could have been different, that it could have known peace and companionship instead of tireless rage and violence. There wasn't much point to it, what was was, but still, it didn't hurt to wish that the world could, sometimes, be gentler. All worlds, as it happened. Old Earth didn’t have a monopoly on suffering, just a more refined touch applied by his own species’ doings.
Moving along, he refilled everyone's tea and his own before redrawing water and putting the roast into the pot. He used his knife to dice some glade potatoes, carrots, a radish-like root, and some somewhat spicy herbs, caramelizing them on a rock before adding them to the soup. A little salt from his pack, that last, greatest, missing ingredient held precious in its dry box in his pack, a gift of his Elvish neighbors, finished the seasoning.
His guests watched with interest and some degree of amusement, at the odd man's dedication to playing host.
It only took a few minutes before the dried meat began to pour its rich aroma into the shelter. Ulric had actually forgotten how incredibly delicious the Gigabear meat was. Mouths watered as he stirred the pot and drew off the scum from the top of the darkening broth. Wooden bowls were shortly filled with [Forest Lord] stew and Ulric garnished them with a final pinch of some savory crushed leaves whose taste was akin to oregano, with an almost vinegarish note. That herb has cost him blood, picked from a devilishly thorned bush, barbed tines guarding lushly delicious foilage.
The assembled Elves breathed deeply of their bowls before diving in to eat with abandon. Everybody was hungry, and that always helps, but they did seem to genuinely enjoy the meal, a mark of pride for Ulric's well-honed bush cuisine. A series of instructionals on turning foraged edibles into fine dining, courtesy of Sage Stroud of the Pre-Collapse, served him well these past months.
"Glade Chief, you are a surprising creature." Said his Shadow suddenly, her voice utterly devoid of its normal veiled irritation, looking up from a nearly inhaled bowl.
"You hide many talents. Sometimes you appear as a savage, others as a scholar, and, now, you show domestic abilities I would expect of a caretaker. Never have you mentioned that you could cook properly. Or carve beyond the shaping of minor tools. Or, Great Sky's Above, weave! A water-tight weave of such difficult material as this [Steelwood] of this glade is good enough to hold a place with our own weaver's young apprentices. With this food, and that tea, you have an artisan's gift for flavoring. I can say with confidence that you would find success in a traveler's kitchen should you choose to open one." She praised, dead serious.
"I would second your Taipan's assessment, Glade Chief," Said one of the unnamed soldiers, a man with one green-gold, one red-gold eye, the only heterochromatic Elf Ulric had seen, who very studiously ignored Geyrt's hissed "I am not a Taipan!" as he continued, "Never did I guess that a Lord recognized by the Akashic would cultivate such refined domestic craft. Next, you will pull out a barrel of mead, and truly will I be in awe."
"If I told my comrades that we were served a wilderness meal unrivaled by our own kitchens in Irielhos, by the Glade Chief, no less, they would near demand satisfaction for an untruth." Finished Santa, the Elf dubbed in Ulric's thoughts for his holiday-themed eyes.
"Where have you learned such skills, if I may ask?" Inquired Twin One, or was it Twin Two?
"Indeed, did you train with masters in your life previous?" Followed Twin Two, maybe One.
If not for the utter seriousness of their questions, Ulric would have been ready to declare that he was being made the butt of an incredibly drawn-out ruse. They weren't joking though, they were absolutely genuine. Ulric's interdimensional status, his magic, his position as a minted Lord of the Lands, none of this impressed these Elves. No, it was the skills honed by a bachelor's life and his random hobbies practiced while dreaming of long-dead wilderness that had them gobsmacked.
"Ummm…thanks? This is uh…just normal though. I always prepared my own food, and I enjoyed handicrafts in my spare time when my day's work was done. I've done this kind of thing for the last thirty or so years, reading books and watching tutorials, from, I guess, artisans, or at least professionals. Hell, if I hadn't had to leave the Glade and escort Brighteyes I was planning on making some grain spirits to tide over the Winter. Christ, is this really so strange?" Ulric asked.
His newmade friend gestured with his hands, an Elven sign of affirmation.
"It is. Most Elven families divide their responsibilities and it is rare for one individual to have any great skill at so very many aspects of home, even more so when they have trades in other domains, like smithing and the combat arts. Especially to cook as you have, this is very rare.” Informed the young swordsman, indicating the soup pot as he did.
“You know which herbs to add, and when, and how much to bring out the flavor of the meat without overwhelming it. You have chosen complementary vegetables, prepared by appropriate treatments of heat to retain their pleasing texture, that also round out the nutrition of the meal to be completely balanced.” Praised his partner on the training field.
He smiled and actually looked a little embarrassed, admitting “I cannot cook at all, other than to roast flesh over a fire.”
That failing was echoed by the other warriors, except for Santa, who, being a Hunter, was somewhat capable, though he professed to being unable to come close to matching the spread Ulric had provided here.
“Also!” interjected Christ, “The other tasks, the sewing and weaving and fabrication of clothes, and such, these are not so common either. I have a head for knot work but would not know where to start stitching the hides that you have sewn into those blankets on the beds. I can carve, somewhat, but, mostly, I am a fighter. You, you might even be able to qualify as a Duty." Christ explained.
A Duty? One of the servants who maintained the citadel? The Elf made that sound like the highest praise. When Ulric asked about it, the entire group professed amazement. Duties were among the most honored citizens of the citadel, trusted completely with the possessions, homes, safety, and cleanliness of the entire city. Cooking, cleaning, weaving, sewing, tailoring, carving, upholstery, maintaining defensive wards, and vigilantly watching out for the inhabitants of the citadel, the Duties did it all. This position was regarded with great respect amongst the Iriel’en.
Housekeepers, that is what the Iriel'en revered.
Ulric was stunned.
How had he missed it? The Implicit trust, the complete faith that all would be safe and secure in their hands, wherever they went and in all that they did. That quiet efficiency that Ulric had noted time and again, these were not mere servants, they were the glue that held the fortress together. Elven society revolved around the functionality of these ever-present but, rarely noticed masters of the domicile.
Now that Ulric thought about it, the easy teasing, frequent challenging statements, and competitive nature of the Iriel'en Elves had never once been turned toward a Duty. They were always treated with respect and requests of their time were made with utter politeness. Huh. Color him surprised.
Never had he intended to live as a caretaker for Elf fortress cities but he'd keep that information in his hip pocket. Retirement was best planned decades in advance. Ulric did have to admit a great deal of satisfaction in cobbling together a fine meal for guests and the fire in his own hearth warmed more than just his flesh. This…was not bad.
Best to enjoy the moment, there would be blood and dying in the near future; he could feel it. If he had anything at all to say about it, none of either would belong to him.
Morning's light was late in arriving at that cold camp. All that meant for weary travelers was that they decamped in the dark. Ulric didn't know how they knew what time it was but he didn't bother asking questions. He was too anxious to get back to the glade, this close it called to him. Home sweet home.
They traveled those last kilometers slowly, visibility was improving steadily but, as Ulric knew intimately, the wood beyond the glade was wild and strictly ankle-breaker country. Soon enough, Ulric's eyes took in the familiar sight of the break in the towering floor to the sky. The Twins, still too low to be seen directly, nevertheless poured light into the clearing as they came out into the open. It was, more or less, as Ulric remembered. Low shrubs dotting small rises, saplings rising only a few dozen feet, scrawny compared to their aeonic brethren, and various other isolated cousins, including a stand of [Steelwood], some of them coppiced beneath a layer of white powder. It seems the leaf fall had mostly buried the outer edges of the glade and he could not see the berry bushes that lined its borders with the vast forests beyond. On top of the great leaves, the powdery snow had fallen deeply into this canopy hole, it was at least a meter deep already. A grey cloud at the edge of his sight promised more yet.
There, in the approximate middle of the glade, lie the corpse of the dead [Godtree]. At its base, on the Southward facing end of the clearing, reared up the broken crown of roots and the shattered stone beneath. Now buried in ice and snow, lay his rockpool. There, inscribing a modest half-acre semicircle, was visible the spiked fence that demarcated Ulric’s homestead.
A satisfied sigh escaped his lips. He felt like it had been an age since he'd left. For all that he'd been enamored of the Elven woodlands below, had been astounded by their architectural splendor, and had been granted ultimate comfort in the fortress city, here was his realm. But he had not long to enjoy it. Pressing matters were at hand, there were invaders on the plateau and he was going to do something about it, if possible.
Best case scenario, some very sneaky merchants or smugglers were hoping to make a bit of quick coin exploring the riches of the newly explorable plateau. Worst case scenario the interlopers were scouts of the same flavor as those marauders who had kidnapped Brighteyes. It wasn't likely that a great many had managed to infiltrate the [Ancient's Gate], too good was the screening of the Elves. A small band, under cover of magical warding and excellent intel, perhaps. But a regiment of troops? Unlikely.
Signs of Ulric’s habitation could be seen, tanning racks suspended here and there on the sides of the half-buried giant, a large snow-covered mound that would be his wood splitting block, the dusted outdoor firepit and tripod for hanging cookpots, and two stacked round smokers. Various other projects were largely invisible under the fresh powder. Mostly though, was the comforting sight of the large shelter Ulric had built into the side of the [Godtree] trunk. His craftsmanship was sound, the notched and stacked limbs, their gaps packed with clay and moss, stood strong. The angled bark-shingled roof, with a rock and clay chimney rising from one corner, its chimney cap of bark, was proud over the simple door that beckoned to shelter within, if only he dug away the snow bank blocking it.
Without preamble, Ulric knelt next to the door and scooped snow away from it, rapidly clearing the way. The trident, whilst an excellent pokey tool, was not so wonderful a snow shovel and Ulric bent over to use his hands to get the thing done. A minute later he had enough of the powdery stuff shifted to get at the woven sapling and clay-wattled portal, with its sturdy wood handle.
"Well, here we are. My home is open to you all, such as it is." Announced Ulric, pulling open the door to his shelter to reveal the rustic interior and its meagre comforts.
Geyrt looked skeptical, at best, at the cold, yet dry, interior with its low stone firepit, two pole beds mounded high with hides. Along the walls ran a trio of rough timber shelves, filled by crudely fired pots and jars alongside more durable [Steelwood] cylinders, shaved of their bark and smoothly carved. Each container was lidded tightly by glassresin lipped lids. A couple of tripod stools sat against a wall, and a large stone and clay hearth dominated one corner of the hewn room, its chimney rising out through the roof as from outside. The chimney cap from outside was seen to allow the smoke from the firepit to draft out, but a set of notched limbs allowed a slat of wood to be slid into place, block it and thus reducing the heat loss from the shelter when cooking wasn’t occurring.
Despite her habit of sleeping in the rough on patrols, the Elf woman was also of a high status amongst her people, who had been cultivating their lands for thousands of years with artistry and mastery, and, most importantly, time, to refine their dwellings. The craftsmanship here was less than impressive.
"This hovel is where my dearest brother was housed to recover from his wounds?" She asked with not a little disbelief.
"It's a little cozier when it isn't buried in snow," Ulric said defensively, "I might also add that I had to build everything here, alone, with this axe on my pack, some homemade carving knives, in between hunting monsters, gathering forest edibles, the ones that I could figure out wouldn't kill or cripple me with toxins. Oh! And also, bear in mind, I was dropped, naked, into a strange world a bare seven-moon cycles ago from a world of technological miracles you couldn't imagine, where knowing how to weave a rope from bark and grass was considered an oddity. You'll have to forgive the rough edges Princess, I've been busy."
The other soldiers smiled. His Shadow frowned but didn't refute the point. In truth, they were not completely unimpressed with this pocket of rudimentary civilization. The materials to work with were not optimal, from a construction point of view. [Steelwood] was a wonderful material when the finished product was presented. It was a bastard to actually work with. The same could be said of the lithic [Godtrees] whose wood was nigh indestructible outside dedicated application of fire and a tool of at least [Forest Lord] bone hardness, driven by nigh inhuman strength. And a sturdy mallet.
Christ broke the slight tension with his usual ease.
"We accept the hospitality of your home Ulric Glade Chief, thank you. If it please you, we will establish a base camp just near to your most economical apartments and set about clearing the area of snow. It is likely that we will need to scout outwards in all directions, possibly for days, to determine the extent of the infiltration. We must also construct sleds to transport whatever goods you have deemed necessary for our return to Irielhos."
"Right, right, of course, you're right Christ." Ulric conceded, ignoring his Shadow's disapproval, "We'll get this place cleaned up and squared away in no time. How do you want to handle the scouting parties?" He asked, after a bit of ear twitching and frowning deliberation.
Christ took a few moments to think it over before opening and quickly closing his mouth. Then he took a few more. Eventually he worked it out to his satisfaction.
"I am worried Ulric." The young Captain bluntly stated, his hand stroked the hilt of his saber absently.
"That our territory was not once, but twice penetrated without an alarm raised is something unheard of. Normally, the Otherkin of Prespang come stomping around with soldiers in formation, trying to bludgeon their way where they are not welcome. Then we draw them into the wood and bleed them until they have decided they have watered Orlethrem enough and they go away for a hundred or so years." Admitted the normally good-humored Elf, his Red and Bronze flecked eyes drawn down in concern.
"This tactic, this approach, that I would not have said was possible, of making inroads so far into Elf land through stealth, is new. Its success is new, rather." He said, worry creeping into his tone.
"It's a thrice damned disaster is what it is." Chimed in Cleaver, almost growling the words out from behind clenched teeth.
Christ acknowledged the warrior with calming gesture before he continued.
"It means that whoever is behind these movements has studied our tactics, has the wisdom and resources to undermine our regular defenses. Normally I would have us rove out separately, going wide in each direction, to spiral inwards and thus catch the invading force in a net. If we cannot be guaranteed to be in control of first contact though, I will not risk Iriel'en lives, allow us to be ambushed alone by unknown foes. No, we will rove out in a team of three, the triads more like standard Hunter protocols in dangerous territory, and zig-zag to find signs, each day in a new direction. It is slower but risks less. The remaining soldier will assist you and your Shadow with tasks here in home base." Concluded the young understudy of Idra'se.
That was good enough for Ulric.
As much as he wanted to follow the buzzing impulse at the base of his spine, to just head out and start prowling around for whoever was infringing on his home, it wasn't a good idea. Luck had been on his side so long ago when he'd rescued Brighteyes. He'd been in a fantastic ambush position, intended for [Bolt Deer] or [Bladefern Elk], but just as effective for men, and had had the advantage of two wounded Greater beasts for distraction. Walking into an ambush wouldn't yield fruit he'd care to eat. If these Elves were anything to go by, coming against a party of prepared elite scouts, who knew he was coming things could get ugly, quickly. But damned if he didn't still want to go out there right this moment and find out who had the brass to come stepping around his backyard, even so. Age-old wisdom spoke to him "Discretion is the better part of valor". The instinctual urging, a tiny, but forceful voice, meanwhile, ranted more along the lines of "Kill, Kill, Kill the white man, kill him until he is dead." Ahh, sweet duality.
Ulric distracted himself by inviting the Elves to make themselves at home, which, to them, meant to begin unpacking their gear and finding places to lay their bedrolls, while he saw to a fire. Despite his offer to take a rest inside the only structure in the clearing, the warrior troupe set up their tents in the flat spot Ulric liked to use to split wood and make with the crafting. For Ulric, first priority was getting the hearth and firepit inside his shelter lit, to give his guests a windless place to warm themselves, the chill of a flameless night still upon all their bones.
It didn't take long to clear off his stack of firewood and bring a few smaller logs to dry. Kindling was provided by looking in on his reserve of dried wood that lay underneath his bed. A quick search of the glade yielded some tinder, fluff pods from a tall variety of plant that liked to grow in the low places of the clearing, places that remained shaded and wet, or, now, frozen and buried beneath near two meters of snow from drifts. The [Glade Cat-tail] stalks tasted like celery, their roots like broccoli, and their fluff burned like a resinous torch. A most useful plant it was and Ulric had long ago memorized its preferred growing locations.
Once the fire was well established, his escort gladly packed into the shelter and warmed themselves by the flame. As the deepening cold left their bodies he extracted his large woven [Steelwood] bark water pot, drew water from the rockpool, which required bashing a hole in the ice with his axe, and hung it over the flame on a pole tripod. Basket weaving had never really been his schtick but it had proven itself a near miraculously useful craft out here, where carving jars or throwing a clay pot was an incredibly large time investment and easily failed due to faults in wood grains or cracks in clay during firing. The best part was that the [Steelwood] bark strips, true to their namesake, carried heat easily through to the water within but burned only with difficulty.
Soon enough, the water boiled and he threw a selection of dried tea leaves from one of the leather pouches hanging from a drying rack strung across the back wall of the shelter. His guests seemed faintly amused at the primitive, if thorough, show of hospitality. They were all of them astonished by the rich flavor of the tea though and Christ told him that whatever that plant was, Ulric should never tell anyone where it grew until he was paid dearly. By their expressions it was near to Elf catnip. The warriors all sat back with contented sighs as the aroma and warmth set them to ease. The sight of Geyrt's blissful smile while she sipped the tea put a slight stirring into the host and he made an effort to look elsewhere. Best not to get any ideas, it had been a while now since dearest Hal'et had made waves with him. It sure was nice to be appreciated though, and the pleased expressions of his guests was a surprisingly welcome sight to the formerly hermetic man.
Ulric was inspired to grab one of the last preserved shoulder roasts of [Forest Lord] in his meat cache. There was precious little left of the great animal. Knowing now what he did about the creature he couldn't help a little sadness thinking about it. He owed much to that last, insane, denatured guardian of the [Plateau of Ancients], and wished that things could have been different, that it could have known peace and companionship instead of tireless rage and violence. There wasn't much point to it, what was was, but still, it didn't hurt to wish that the world could, sometimes, be gentler. All worlds, as it happened. Old Earth didn’t have a monopoly on suffering, just a more refined touch applied by his own species’ doings.
Moving along, he refilled everyone's tea and his own before redrawing water and putting the roast into the pot. He used his knife to dice some glade potatoes, carrots, a radish-like root, and some somewhat spicy herbs, caramelizing them on a rock before adding them to the soup. A little salt from his pack, that last, greatest, missing ingredient held precious in its dry box in his pack, a gift of his Elvish neighbors, finished the seasoning.
His guests watched with interest and some degree of amusement, at the odd man's dedication to playing host.
It only took a few minutes before the dried meat began to pour its rich aroma into the shelter. Ulric had actually forgotten how incredibly delicious the Gigabear meat was. Mouths watered as he stirred the pot and drew off the scum from the top of the darkening broth. Wooden bowls were shortly filled with [Forest Lord] stew and Ulric garnished them with a final pinch of some savory crushed leaves whose taste was akin to oregano, with an almost vinegarish note. That herb has cost him blood, picked from a devilishly thorned bush, barbed tines guarding lushly delicious foilage.
The assembled Elves breathed deeply of their bowls before diving in to eat with abandon. Everybody was hungry, and that always helps, but they did seem to genuinely enjoy the meal, a mark of pride for Ulric's well-honed bush cuisine. A series of instructionals on turning foraged edibles into fine dining, courtesy of Sage Stroud of the Pre-Collapse, served him well these past months.
"Glade Chief, you are a surprising creature." Said his Shadow suddenly, her voice utterly devoid of its normal veiled irritation, looking up from a nearly inhaled bowl.
"You hide many talents. Sometimes you appear as a savage, others as a scholar, and, now, you show domestic abilities I would expect of a caretaker. Never have you mentioned that you could cook properly. Or carve beyond the shaping of minor tools. Or, Great Sky's Above, weave! A water-tight weave of such difficult material as this [Steelwood] of this glade is good enough to hold a place with our own weaver's young apprentices. With this food, and that tea, you have an artisan's gift for flavoring. I can say with confidence that you would find success in a traveler's kitchen should you choose to open one." She praised, dead serious.
"I would second your Taipan's assessment, Glade Chief," Said one of the unnamed soldiers, a man with one green-gold, one red-gold eye, the only heterochromatic Elf Ulric had seen, who very studiously ignored Geyrt's hissed "I am not a Taipan!" as he continued, "Never did I guess that a Lord recognized by the Akashic would cultivate such refined domestic craft. Next, you will pull out a barrel of mead, and truly will I be in awe."
"If I told my comrades that we were served a wilderness meal unrivaled by our own kitchens in Irielhos, by the Glade Chief, no less, they would near demand satisfaction for an untruth." Finished Santa, the Elf dubbed in Ulric's thoughts for his holiday-themed eyes.
"Where have you learned such skills, if I may ask?" Inquired Twin One, or was it Twin Two?
"Indeed, did you train with masters in your life previous?" Followed Twin Two, maybe One.
If not for the utter seriousness of their questions, Ulric would have been ready to declare that he was being made the butt of an incredibly drawn-out ruse. They weren't joking though, they were absolutely genuine. Ulric's interdimensional status, his magic, his position as a minted Lord of the Lands, none of this impressed these Elves. No, it was the skills honed by a bachelor's life and his random hobbies practiced while dreaming of long-dead wilderness that had them gobsmacked.
"Ummm…thanks? This is uh…just normal though. I always prepared my own food, and I enjoyed handicrafts in my spare time when my day's work was done. I've done this kind of thing for the last thirty or so years, reading books and watching tutorials, from, I guess, artisans, or at least professionals. Hell, if I hadn't had to leave the Glade and escort Brighteyes I was planning on making some grain spirits to tide over the Winter. Christ, is this really so strange?" Ulric asked.
His newmade friend gestured with his hands, an Elven sign of affirmation.
"It is. Most Elven families divide their responsibilities and it is rare for one individual to have any great skill at so very many aspects of home, even more so when they have trades in other domains, like smithing and the combat arts. Especially to cook as you have, this is very rare.” Informed the young swordsman, indicating the soup pot as he did.
“You know which herbs to add, and when, and how much to bring out the flavor of the meat without overwhelming it. You have chosen complementary vegetables, prepared by appropriate treatments of heat to retain their pleasing texture, that also round out the nutrition of the meal to be completely balanced.” Praised his partner on the training field.
He smiled and actually looked a little embarrassed, admitting “I cannot cook at all, other than to roast flesh over a fire.”
That failing was echoed by the other warriors, except for Santa, who, being a Hunter, was somewhat capable, though he professed to being unable to come close to matching the spread Ulric had provided here.
“Also!” interjected Christ, “The other tasks, the sewing and weaving and fabrication of clothes, and such, these are not so common either. I have a head for knot work but would not know where to start stitching the hides that you have sewn into those blankets on the beds. I can carve, somewhat, but, mostly, I am a fighter. You, you might even be able to qualify as a Duty." Christ explained.
A Duty? One of the servants who maintained the citadel? The Elf made that sound like the highest praise. When Ulric asked about it, the entire group professed amazement. Duties were among the most honored citizens of the citadel, trusted completely with the possessions, homes, safety, and cleanliness of the entire city. Cooking, cleaning, weaving, sewing, tailoring, carving, upholstery, maintaining defensive wards, and vigilantly watching out for the inhabitants of the citadel, the Duties did it all. This position was regarded with great respect amongst the Iriel’en.
Housekeepers, that is what the Iriel'en revered.
Ulric was stunned.
How had he missed it? The Implicit trust, the complete faith that all would be safe and secure in their hands, wherever they went and in all that they did. That quiet efficiency that Ulric had noted time and again, these were not mere servants, they were the glue that held the fortress together. Elven society revolved around the functionality of these ever-present but, rarely noticed masters of the domicile.
Now that Ulric thought about it, the easy teasing, frequent challenging statements, and competitive nature of the Iriel'en Elves had never once been turned toward a Duty. They were always treated with respect and requests of their time were made with utter politeness. Huh. Color him surprised.
Never had he intended to live as a caretaker for Elf fortress cities but he'd keep that information in his hip pocket. Retirement was best planned decades in advance. Ulric did have to admit a great deal of satisfaction in cobbling together a fine meal for guests and the fire in his own hearth warmed more than just his flesh. This…was not bad.
Best to enjoy the moment, there would be blood and dying in the near future; he could feel it. If he had anything at all to say about it, none of either would belong to him.
