MENTALITY RECOVERED from his latest scouting and observation session.
He lay recoiled in his tent. His tent was filled with magical essences and vapors from obscure gods and their lineage; the smoky vapors left tendrils in the visible air which combined with the glinting essences to create a kaleidoscope effect on his vision. It helped his condition, but not by much. He had been trading creation too much. Been too observant of Zan and company.
"Too observant," he muttered under his breath. "It's my weakness. I care too much..."
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something other than the pain coursing through his body. It was hard to do with so much pain, though. He tried as well as he could. He sweated. He labored his breathing. He tried to then slow his breathing.
After many minutes of bodily anguish, he had reached a point where he considered calling Rictus for aid. The engineer could get and bring for him his special stash of Medy-Em, a strain bio-engineered and grown for just such an occasion.
He couldn't.
If he called for help that would be an admittance to the lower class, it would be an acknowledgement he was not all powerful. That was not something he ever wanted to say, let alone 'admit,' as if it wasn't, in fact, populist propaganda. 'No. If I ask him for help, he will never let me live it down. Silence in words doesn't mean silence in thoughts...'
By a primal's roughshod, by perhaps, even the grace of a divine, Rictus came to him.
"Sire?" Rictus Dawson asked through the heavy layers of tent.
"Yes!?" Mentality replied, trying to hide his pain through anger.
"Milord, I have the evening report ready for you, per custom. Normally, I would wait for you to show, but I am in need of some extra personal time tonight, so I was hoping I could verbally give it? The report is short: the domestics for the camp have finished. Our observants are either in their tents or bunkers. Your associates remain away. There is food simmering over the fire. Unless you have orders for me, might I knock off early, sire?" Rictus asked, his voice tired-sounding.
"You may, underling. Before your duties end for the evening, bring to me my special satchel piled up with the remaining baggage," he asked of his subordinate.
"That green bag with a leaf emblem on it? I will right away, milord," Rictus said, scurrying away.
He just had to hold out until Rictus came to him again. Considering there was nothing else for him to do except hold out, it was easy enough to do, despite his state. Humor aside, he cursed every moment his underling was away. More than anything, he cursed his own weakness.
No less than thirty minutes passed before Rictus returned to him. "Sire?" he said. "I have retrieved your bag. Apologies for the period. It was harder to locate than I anticipated. Then I had to re-assemble the baggage pile--"
Cutting him off mid-sentence, he said, "Never mind that! In the future, Rictus, when you are told to do something, do it quickly! Returning to I with the belongings I asked for should not wait until after crumble-button baggage has been stacked! Do I make myself clear!?"
"Yes, you do... goodnight, milord, and apologies. Should the need arise, I will be in my tent and among the area, but outside of official capacity, of course. Well, as I said, good evening..."
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Before Rictus left, he said something he should not have said: "Yes, yes. 'Evening to yourself."
His response was more cordial than he should be with a subordinate. For being so harsh with the engineer just moments ago, he felt like he needed to 'make it up' to the engineer. Had he been wise and stoic, he still would have resisted the emotional pull. Perhaps his bodily infirmities were affecting his mental health? The idea seemed lame, honestly, but he could not rule it out as a potential.
With Rictus gone away to attend to his personal business, he was left alone once more. He heard the wind outside his canvas tent howl, for it was a particularly windy day today. Tree branches scratched from the outside. It was a sound almost like a friend. There, unyielding, indifferent.
He wanted to retrieve his sack from outside the tent to partake of his rejuvenating Medy-Em. His body remained immobile, though. He fought through the pained minutes turned to an hour then two and three. He had rarely been so out of it while stalking Creation. Of course, normally, he did not spend long, if any time at all, Stalking. It was not an activity which should be undertaken lightly, so he limited his engagement for the sake of respect to the natural ontology of the world.
Which he now knew was a mistake.
'I should've been training and stalking non-stop from the time I was at the academy till now!' he internally shouted. 'If I had known... if I had known...!'
He was paying for his 'decency' now. With pain. 'But not anymore,' he vowed. As damaging it was for him to stalk so heavily and so often, he had to do so more and more if he wanted to keep abreast on Zan and his friends as he re-built the martial order. There was something in those ruins he wanted, and he couldn't let it slip out of his hands because they -- Zan and friends in their youthful ignorance -- destroyed it or tossed it aside to oblivion!
'I need to recover so I can re-enter Creation's Waters so I can stalk them again so I can locate that item so I can--' and on his mind went until he felt resolute enough to shift his body slightly and prepare for grabbing the Medy-Em bag outside his tent. It wasn't much, his shifting, just enough of his body moved for him to be able to say, 'I am doing this: I am overcoming myself: I am going to grab that bag!' Yet it was a slow-motion symphony. His limbs worked but they were slow, like snow in about-to-be-frozen molasses syrup.
He fought himself for a long time in carefully moving his limbs, each movement, no matter how trivial, a fight. One movement led to another which led to another as he built momentum; the many subtle motions of his body and how his limbs interacted to form even simple movements, slowing his flow so badly, it seemed hours had to pass between him getting himself up from his bedding pad and having retrieved the bag. Sweat soaked his body by the time he returned to his bedding, bag in hand. He nearly lost consciousness once or twice. Though that might have just been him being dramatic.
With bag between his legs, he slowly opened it, desperate for relief. Opened, he saw a box of tightly bound roll-ups. Seeing the pre-made smokables ready for consumption, he was never gladder for his splurging in purchasing the 'pre-rolled' option.
He took one to his lips and let it hang while he brought his thumb to its tip and ignited a tiny flame. The roll up took to the fire smoothly and without issue. No false starts, no tricky burning. Simply pure burn.
'This is it...!' he growled as he felt the healing herb take its effect.
His body felt warm, like a goddess of mercy was hugging him. His muscles relaxed and his overly sweaty skin cooled and ceased its over functioning. The darkness which sat at the edge of his vision while he painfully moved his form faded back to the recesses of existence. Mentally, he felt clean. Though he did miss his companion's constant impressions upon his psyche... not that they ever left, to be clear, as, even now, he felt them from a distance. Their laughs, their clicks. Their dissonance.
He took another pull and exhaled. He felt even better; the parts of his body which were yet unaffected by the herb became effected and he felt lose enough to lay down as the rolling sensations of the herb crashed over his body as waves of pleasure.
Gradually, each pull, and each pre-rolled smokable, the agony of his frame faded. Soon, he was merely incapacitated, not bedridden. Eventually, he felt well enough to pull the flap on his tent open -- which was a little window to his right -- and let the smoke leave his hotbox-styled space. Through the window, he saw the bunker in the distance, and within, the boy who had proved to be a mighty pain in his side...
