Jewel-of-Northwood had to be the first...civilized...man he'd met who claimed to enjoy leaving the comforts of a warm, dry home in favor of a cold, dark, soggy forest. No — by that smile, he genuinely did enjoy it. Indeed, Mr. Jewel continued to challenge many of Ven's assumptions. The man had quickly become another line in a long mental list of enigmas, noted just below the arcane, spirits, and being chased and yelled at for being a "vem-pyre". All of this was not to say that Ven disliked the wilderness. On the contrary, he much preferred it to the stench and the cacophony and the nonsense rules of city life. He simply needed to dry off and be more man than mud and detritus again. And to have a hot bath. And to sit by a fire with some tea and a pile of too many biscuits and a book that he could actually read.
For now, though, Mr. Jewel had promised a shelter and rest, and that would have to be enough. And, when they finally broke free from the underbrush and gazed out over an eternity of windswept hills under a vast predawn sky, the man pointed to such a shelter. He sounded weary. Ven could not blame him. Yet that old fort called to him: a distant echo of a feeling that he could not define. It was like...an old friend, somehow. Like home. And so, as the healer burnt through the last of his energy, Ven redoubled his own pace, intent on answers to a question that had not yet coalesced.
The door was gone. The view from the top was all wrong. So was the shape of the fort, and the stone that had been used to raise it. The air smelled different, too: less tree and snow, more rock and soil. Still, as Ven's fingers slid across the rough wall, he felt a tingle at the back of his neck. "I could swear..." he murmured. His voice echoed against the ceiling. Behind him, on the other side of that cavernous room, Jewel-of-Northwood dug around for a cache.
"Would you see if there's still some good firewood somewhere? Might still be a chair or two left."
"Hmm?" Ven snapped to again. Of course. He could mull this uncanny feeling over once the man had settled in to rest. For now, a fire was the most pressing matter. "Ah. Yes. My apologies, I...let me look." He stooped and felt his way along the wall until he found a recess in which layers of heavy, tarred canvas had been packed tight. The former occupants had clearly wanted to keep something bone-dry. It seemed as likely a spot as any. "Here, I think," he called over his shoulder. Then, wary of the spiders that had no doubt made their home beneath the tarpaulin, he pulled the bundle out and dragged it across the floor towards the long-dead hearth.
"There is fatwood here, by the smell. And other kindling. And the larger pieces are quite dry," Ven reported with a note of admiration. He straightened up and glanced over at Mr. Jewel, who had laid two bedrolls out. It was a kind gesture, but... "Mm," Ven added. The man did not know. Well. At least he would be all the more comfortable for it. In the meantime, Ven stacked wood for the fire, building it in such a way that they would not burn through their supplies in half a day. When it was time, he produced that same, strange box, struck a match on the side of the hearth, and carefully lit the pile of dry grasses and kindling.
"I thank you, but I cannot sleep," he said at last. "Exposure will not do me any harm. You should take both." He watched the flames lick the kindling. The fatwood burst to life. Finally, it seemed that the risk had passed of their fire fizzling out. He stood again and, out of sheer habit, began to seek a kettle. Surely these people had their priorities straight when it came to tea and stew and bathing. He made for the recess in the wall again and began to dig around. "Mr. Jewel," he grunted, his cloak rolled up over his shoulder and his hand driven halfway into the cache. His fingers closed around a spiral of something cold. A handle. He tugged. It was a small iron kettle, and it was oiled well against the elements. "Good. Yes. Ah...is there a spring nearby? Some source of water? I find myself in need of tea again."
