“Thank you, Kragh. Oh, and…”
“Yeah. I’ll try to avoid Fennew.”
The sunlight outside was almost blinding. It was near the end of the ninth month of thirteen, and the late summer was beautiful. Golden light illuminated the meadows and fields and added a mystical aura to the steaming pines still damp with the characteristic moisture that gave Mistpine its name. It was a good three months after the long day had ended, when the sun wouldn’t set for more than an entire month, and slightly more than three months until the long night, when for about the same period there would be no sunrise at all. In two weeks, half-way through the tenth month, would be the equinox, marking the official beginning of fall. After that, the temperature would drop quickly, covering the entire area around the village in ice and snow at the beginning of the long night.
Then, it would be hard to come by any medicinal plants, and since Woundwort was much less effective when dried or processed into an ointment, it was wise not to get injured in the winter months.
Now, however, was an exceptionally good time to harvest Woundwort leaves: They had all summer to gather strength, and even though Merrick hadn’t succeeded in cultivating the plant in his garden, it was rather common in the woods surrounding the village. Usually, Kraghtol preferred the forest to the west of the village since he knew the spots there well. Since he had been there just yesterday, however, and he would have to cross the Frostwater again, he went east today. He didn’t really think Fennew and his friends would be back at the bridge, at least not if he had landed his punches right, but he also didn’t want to take any chances.
He didn’t particularly enjoy fighting. In fact, he hated it. Part of his Orcish heritage was a tall frame full of muscles he was able to maintain effortlessly and an exceptional toughness, but truth be told, he would have gladly exchanged both for a peaceful life.
Sadly, the muscles and brutish strength he possessed were among the very few features of his that gave him somewhat of a standing in the village. People didn’t want to meet him after dark because they saw him as dangerous. Which made for a very lonely thirteenth month. At the same time, his strength was welcome whenever there was a need for heavy manual labor. Kraghtol could work for two in the harvest season, and when a heavy boulder or log had to be moved, or a cart had to be pulled out of the mud and no ox was available, the half-orc was good enough.
He knew he should be thankful for the opportunity to earn some money for his foster father and add a bit of positive reputation to his name, but even though he did all of that without complaining, he didn’t feel thrilled with this role in life.
The forest around him today was quiet, with no sign or sound of a logger or hunter. The calm was relaxing, and the moisture all around him was soothing his sore body. But neither the pleasant weather nor the peaceful environment could stop the same unwanted thoughts from pouring in that often plagued him in the days after a brawl.
No, Kraghtol hated fighting, and he didn’t find manual labor very fulfilling either. What Kraghtol really wanted was to become a healer, like Merrick. He wanted to help him treat patients and heal the sick and wounded. And at some point, to take over the position as the village healer, so Merrick could finally relax a bit.
It wasn’t even that there was not enough to do. In the winter months, there were enough sick people, even in a small village like Mistpine, and in the summer months, injuries happened often enough to warrant a pair of helping hands. There was just one problem:
Nobody wanted to get treated by the brutish half-orc. Kraghtol couldn’t even blame them. Who in their right mind would like to get healed by the village thug? He might cure your cough, or he might break your arm — unpredictable like a wild animal.
Kraghtol shook his head to get rid of the thought. He just had to keep his anger under control and behave like a normal human being. Then certainly, people would accept him as a healer just fine.
Carefully, Kraghtol moved a big fern to the side, and the sight that greeted him put a smile on his face. In front of him and embedded between a pine stump and a mossy boulder, there was a rather large patch of Woundwort, ready for harvest. Perhaps the day would turn out to be not so bad after all.
He was just halfway through harvesting the medical leaves, and his pouch was nearly filled to the brim when he suddenly heard something out of the ordinary. It had sounded like a voice, but it had been so faint that Kraghtol wasn’t certain until the voice called out again. He still wasn’t surewhatwas being said, but at least now he was certainthatthere had been someone calling. Turning around until he heard the voice again, he decided on a direction and hurried towards the noise. Perhaps someone was in danger!
“Hello? Do you need help?” he called out while breaking through the undergrowth. A few seconds later, he received an answer:
“Help! Yes! I’m over here.”
The voice sounded old and peculiar, and when Kraghtol discovered the source only half a minute later, he understood why. In front of him, lying on the ground helplessly, was an old… person. It was nigh impossible to say if it was a man or a woman, since all the figure seemed to comprise were wrinkles and cartilage. The human — at least that Kraghtol was reasonably sure of — was lying on the ground in a decidedly unhealthy position, with at least one leg twisted beyond what bones and sinews should be capable of. The face, however, that reminded Kraghtol somewhat of a shriveled apple, distorted into a broad grin when the half-orc came into view.
“Yes, finally. You have heard me. You need to help me, will you?”
Kraghtol nodded, already approaching the figure.
“Yes, of course. Are you hurt?”
“Hurt? Yes, yes, of course I am hurt. Would I lie here on the ground like that if I were not hurt? My leg is clearly hurt, is it not?”
Kraghtol nodded, but hesitated for a moment longer. The leg didn’t look well at all, and the old one in front of him would be unable to walk. They didn’t show a single sign of pain in their voice, but Kraghtol had enough secondhand experience to recognize that they had to be in shock.
“I will need to carry you to the village, to our healer. Are you okay with that? And you need to tell me if I cause you any pain.”
To his surprise, the old person seemed to chuckle.
“Yes, I suppose you can carry me. That shouldn’t be difficult for you at all, right? Big and strong as you are…”
He shook his head. The shock had to be severe, and it was obvious that the other person was not thinking straight. No one ever wanted to be touched by him, let alone be carried. Deciding to take advantage of the situation until the surely immense pain would return, he carefully lifted the stranger off the ground.
It wasn’t difficult at all. The old human was wiry and thin and didn’t weigh more than a child. And the body was… fragile, in a gnarly way. It probably wouldn’t take much effort to snap it like a twig and…
Kraghtol shook his head again. More unwanted thoughts. Of course, he would never do something like that and had never, ever acted on these impulses before. It wasn’t even always violent thoughts like the one just now. No, sometimes, he fought the sudden urge to run, or to sing, which would have been acceptable to give in to. Butmost times, giving in to these intrusive thoughts would inevitably end with him hurting someone — or himself. And that was certainly not what he wanted.
It wasn’t hard to carry the wounded person home through the woods. Every so often, the old man or woman seemed to twitch and squirm, which Kraghtol interpreted as onsetting pain and made him try to move even more carefully. Finally, he arrived at Merrick’s house and placed the patient on the sickbed as gently as he could.
