Who: Valen & OTA What: He's finally left the hospital! Has no idea where the hell the island is. Where: Somewhere in the city. When: Between Nones and Vespers Warnings | Status: TBD | in progress
It was sometime before Vespers, but still after Nones, judging by the arch of the sun across the sky. Valen looked up at it with a satisfied smile and reveled in the warmth that settled into his bones. It was a beautiful day, he was free of the hospital--no thanks to his own doing, really, as he'd like to have stayed in there until next Spring--but the stench of cleanliness had abandoned him and his stomach. He kept actual food down now, and for the most part, he could walk. Well, he hobbled. All in all it was a good experience.
A lot better than his prospects had been some twelve days ago, that was certain.
Valen stuffed his now dried cloak into his rucksack, then slung the whole thing over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the book of Maps settle against his back. It was eerily familiar, not at all comforting, but still the only worldly possession from home. He had no sentimental value attached to it, but wondered what he'd get for hawking it in the city. It was a valuable item. All Cartamandua Maps were.
But first thing first. He needed to find a herbalist, then he'd hawk the book and see about finding residence or getting passage off the island. His relative isolation in the hospital since his arrival had told Valen exactly nothing about his predicament, or the nature of the island itself. He'd asked, but his answers had yielded little results. But anyway, he hobbled away from the hospital in high spirits. He was alive, there were no soldiers about in his immediate sight, and neither was he cloistered in an Abbey.
"Mother Samele," he said aloud, "I will give you a donation every Sunday of the year if I never wake up from this dream." And he mostly meant it.