Flavor, texture, breakfast

I read this article online from a man that had lost his sense of smell in an accident and explaining how it's changed parts of his life that we normally would not discuss in polite company. The article itself was interesting enough, but it's the comments I care about right now. Someone asked him various questions about food, and he remarked that without his sense of smell, food had lost its nuance. He finds colors and textures more interesting now. I had enjoyed textures in my food before, crunchy taco shells, soft pudding, crisp lettuce, etc. but they were not the primary reason for me eating something.

I'm at breakfast this morning with my lovely girlfriend at one of my favorite diners and she asked how my food was. I say everything's wonderful. Then I noticed that while the hash browns are indeed great, it's really the texture I'm referring to. They have almost no flavor, but I don't care. They are crispy on the outside - audibly crunchy, no less - and soft (in a good way) in the inside. It's not something I've ever articulated or thought about until after reading his comments. But there I was, enjoying flavorless texture.

As I'm telling her my thoughts, she hears the passion in my voice. She says I'm excited about hash browns, and I murmur I like food. She laughed and said I should write about it. So here I am.

The whole breakfast was wonderful. They do a variation on eggs Benedict with a biscuit and sausage patty instead of the traditional English muffin and ham. The biscuit is fluffy, though structurally unsound. I found myself needing to use a spoon to eat my meal after the gravy soaked in. The sausage patty was particularly spicy this morning, which may be due to my cereal Renaissance at home. Seriously, I haven't eaten this much cereal since I was ten (Tiger Flakes, yo). The hollandaise and poached eggs were marvelous, if not terribly unique.

The other gem on my plate was the jalapeño bacon. I've bought a few different brands of jalapeño bacon over the years, but they are often not spicy in the least. Also, I've yet to master getting bacon crispy when I cook it. It's always good, but a little disappointing to pick up. Anyway, this bacon is spicy, meaty, and crisp. As we're talking, we both fall silent each time one of use takes a bite. I even reflexively close my eyes and my head drops a little. She's similarly enjoying her own strips of paradise.

My food starts to grow cold and I hurry to eat it before it turns inedible. The biscuit is losing all identity, the previously runny yolk is congealing, the hollandaise loses its zest, the hash browns cold and limp. But the jalapeño bacon, oh that glorious jalapeño bacon remained delicious even in that final bite.

The Mercenary's Path part 12

Thom spent a week waking only long enough to eat something, fill his bedpan, and take more medicine. On the eighth day he awoke to find he had a visitor sitting in a chair facing his bed. It was Master Grahm, but this time he had only food and water for Thom. He spoke while Thom ate.

“Your pain should have subsided enough for us to try something experimental. That M’kesh did some serious damage to your leg. Normally such an injury would leave a man unable to do little more than hobble the rest of his life. But you are lucky to live in such an age,” Master Grahm smiled to himself just as much as to Thom as he stood and walked out of the room.

A few minutes later Master Grahm returned with a metal contraption with leather straps. He set it on the table next to the bed and pulled Thom’s blanket back. Thom pulled at the edge of his nightshirt to cover himself before remembering that Master Grahm had seen more cocks than a chicken baron and was wholly unfazed by such matters. Thom let his eyes wander to his knees. The right one was the same as always. The left one was swollen and didn’t have the right angle it should. There was dark bruising halfway up the thigh and midway down his calf. At the edges it was yellow, but most was an angry blackish purple.

Master Grahm traced a line from the top of the bruise on the thigh to the knee, shifting his angle as he went to the bottom portion on the shin. Thom knew the damage was bad, but seeing the bend in the line like that made it seem all the worse. Master Grahm reached into his pocket and pulled out a long needle and a small bottle.

“You are no doubt familiar with splints, yes? They are a handy thing to have been invented. But your knee is meant to bend. Were I to fix a splint to it, your knee would heal, but the joint would heal stiff and you would walk with a terrible limp the rest of your life. Fine for an inn keeper, but a shite deal for a knight.”

He pricked the skin in several spots. Thom winced in pain, but did his best to not move. Master Grahm pressed on the skin around the pricks and a dark liquid seeped out. This he wiped away with a clean rag he produced before pouring the liquid from the small bottle into each small hole. Thom’s pain abated almost immediately, his face showing the relief. Master Grahm noted the change in expression and smiled. Reaching over, he grabbed the contraption and set it on the bed next to Thom’s leg. He lifted the battered leg slowly and slid the contraption beneath it, then lowered the leg into place. Next, he began lacing the straps. Thom steeled himself for the inevitable pain. It arrived, though was less than expected. Master Grahm snugged each lace tight, pulling Thom’s knee into place.

Looking at his leg, he wondered why Master Grahm had gone on about the problems of splints when it seemed that’s what he just gave him. Master Grahm seemed to sense this question and lifted a hand to stop Thom from asking.

“Right now, your knee is held secure and you cannot bend it. But…” Master Grahm trailed off as he fiddled with the contraption, pulling and flicking at it, “There you go.” And with that, Master Grahm grabbed Thom’s knee with one hand and the ankle with the other and bent his leg.

“To the seven!... That didn’t hurt. Why didn’t that hurt?” Thom asked.

Master Grahm began to laugh, softly at first, but it grew louder and louder.

“It worked! Oh thank the seven gods, it worked!” Master Grahm exclaimed. “I mean, I read that it should, but to see it with your own eyes is different!”

Thom could see that the old man needed a minute.

Finally Master Grahm calmed down enough to explain, “You see, this is no mere steel and leather. The metal is called mythril. Dwarves mine it, or so the tales tell. I really don’t know the specifics. And the leather is made from wyvern hide. They’re a nasty creature, similar to a dragon - though don’t ever tell a dragon that! If the legends are to be believed, hoo boy, they do not take such comparisons well. Anyway, these materials, along with the sap of the yggdr tree - which as you know is unique among trees for healing itself when woodsmen attempt to cut it down - have bonded to your leg and take the place of your natural knee. Your knee is still there of course, but as far as your body is concerned, the device is doing all its work!”

Thom looked at his knee, which was still as dark and painful looking as it had been. When he touched the skin, the pain was minimal. He pushed on the skin and a wave of pain cascaded across the knee as well as the brace. He was confused as to how he felt the brace. He pressed on the metal and he could swear he could feel the tip of his finger through it. Master Grahm laughed again.

“I told you, it’s bonded to your leg. There were also some strange runes carved into the mythril, though they face your leg so they cannot be read by others. I think that’s part of the magic. To be certain, I have no idea how it works, only that it seems to.” Master Grahm pulled another small bottle from his pocket and handed it to Thom saying, “Well, I think this is enough excitement for today. Drink this and sleep. You will awake in three days and we can begin teaching you to walk again.”

With that Master Grahm exited the room. Thom looked at the bottle, and then at his knee. He uncorked the bottle and drained it in one swig.

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I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.

The Mercenary's Path part 11

Zand spent the next several days trying to create cheese, bread, sausages, and even rat meat. None of it seemed to work. His headaches took longer to subside, which worried him. There was nothing in their supplies for pain. Plenty of springthyme had been packed, as it would provide valuable energy during a fight. Also packed was nightshade, which did have numbing qualities, but it was poisonous and brought along to give to dying men to ease their final hours.

When the food was down to the last meal, the commander had a tough decision to make. He was responsible for the safety of his men, and decided to risk the mission in favor of their all dying. Hunting teams were allowed to bring back one striped rat or crow per man, as their bags would still look unchanged. Additionally he proclaimed a hankering for some wild pig, so they were permitted to hunt them as well. Still, it wouldn’t do to have everyone off hunting, so he hoped the few men that went out found plenty of pigs.

Several hours later the hunters returned with a pregnant sow. While it was standard practice to avoid killing pregnant animals, these were dire times. The extra meat inside would be helpful, too.

The mother was roast on a spit, while her entrails and the unborn were boiled in a stew that was mostly water and meat with just a few pine needles added for flavor. No one complained when dinner was served, but nobody referenced what was in the stew.

***********************

The commander decided to push on to the destination city, and hope that they could re-supply on credit. Thankfully, the bandits did not attack the caravan during the trip. That’s where the commander’s luck run out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You want supplies for thirty men, for two weeks. On credit. That’s preposterous enough, but you don’t even live here. No. No. I can’t do it. I won’t do it,” the merchant practically laughed in his face.

He realized when he was beat. Why should this man offer what amounted to charity to total strangers? The men could hunt on the way back and abandon any pretense of their being an actual merchant caravan. It was not ideal, but it was an option. They could also try to accompany actual caravans as guards, but adding their own wagons would make the train too large to be believable.

Or they could join the problem.

The commander was aware that he brought an army he could not feed. An army capable of taking what they wanted by force if they chose to. That would be bad.

He looked into the merchant’s eyes and laid it bare. He explained the reason for the men, and why they had been unprepared and unfunded. He told how there were thirty armed and formidable men that needed food and had no civil way to obtain it. And while it is very effective, no one wants to accept steel as payment.

The merchant did his best to keep his face from showing alarm. He maintained a mostly steady voice as he said that maybe he had some low-quality grain he could part with, though he would need to review his books. He excused himself to fetch them from the back room, but could maintain his composure no more and bolted for the door, slamming it shut and barring it from the inside. A loud clanging noise came from the other room and the commander realized he had been bested a second time. There was no time to hang around, the town guard would come running soon.

The commander exited the shop and made his way to another building before any guards could spot him. Thankfully it was a clothing boutique and he had a few silver coins in his boot. He found the cheapest robe and headwrap and haggled the price for both to a single silver coin. He removed the boot, fetched the coin, and slipped his purchases on. He hoped it would be sufficient to make his way to the caravan outside without being recognized.

***********************

Zand pulled half of last night’s portion of crow from his pack and created a small flame to heat it before gulping it down. What he wouldn’t give for even a piece of stale bread right about now. The commander had ordered the men to maintain the appearance of a caravan, so no one was hunting. If the commander came back empty handed, he didn’t know what the others might do. He wondered if he should have stayed on at the inn. He got lost in thought of stew and fresh bread.

“What’s that smell? It smells like meat in here!” accused Flunk or Flink, or whatever his name was.

“You’re hallucinating,” Zand played it off. “Hunger can do strange things to a man.”

Flank looked around once more before turning over and going back to sleep. Zand realized he should be more careful with his food. Just because they were his rations last night didn’t seem to mean much to these men. He wrapped the last bit of meat in a rag and stuffed it to the bottom of his pack. He then made sure his dagger’s sheath was secure and that his dagger could be retrieved easily, while keeping an eye on the sleeping bully.

Zand stood and made sure his merchant garb was covering his armor. Some of the men wore iron, but that was too heavy for him. He finally settled on a leather cuirass. It covered his vital organs well enough, though he was warned that it wouldn’t keep him as safe as iron would. He countered that being stuck on his back was dangerous in its own way. At least this allowed him to move about without too much trouble. He even managed to levitate while wearing it. After double-checking that he was covered, he exited the wagon to get some air.

The Mercenary's Path part 10

That evening Zand returned to collect his free meal. The barkeep smiled at him as he entered and waved a hand toward a seat at the bar. Zand nodded and took the indicated seat. A larger than usual mug was placed in front of him, then the barkeep opened a new bottle of mead and filled the vessel. He shook the bottle and heard the remaining liquid, then set it next to the mug.

“There’s goat stew with wild onions and tame potatoes,” the barkeep said, laughing at his own joke. Zand joined in laughing, though he wasn’t sure what was so funny.

A large bowl full of meat and vegetables was placed before Zand, as well as a hunk of fresh, brown bread. Zand couldn’t remember the last time he ate fresh bread, and he had to force himself to not wolf it down in three gulps. The barkeep laughed and let him know he could have a second piece, if he wanted. Then he walked away and tended to the fire.

Zand ate and drank, then did some more. He took the offer of a second piece of bread and wiped the bowl clean with it. When his mug and bottle were empty, he reached into his pouch and fingered the remaining money. The barkeep spoke up, rousing Zand’s attention.

“If you’d like, I can spare a standard mug of honey ale.”

“Yes, that’d be wonderful.”

After the mug was set down, the barkeep spoke low, so as to not be overheard, “That old man was my father, well, not my true father, but the man had a large hand in raising me. So I thank you, truly and deeply, for helping me tend to him today. It means a lot to me.” After clearing his throat, the barkeep continued, “My name is Varl. Might I have your name?”

“My name is Zand. I am glad to have been able to help, and thankful for the payment provided.” He took a sip of the honey ale before continuing, “ How is he?”

Varl looked down, sadness in his eyes. Then shaking his head, “He lost too much blood and was too old. He regained consciousness for a time, and we spoke of things I will not repeat. He also told me of what happened, and that I will repeat. He had been travelling back from visiting his daughter’s family in a town to the south. He had arranged passage with a trading caravan, hoping to avoid the long walk by riding in a cart with some potatoes. Unfortunately, caravans attract bandits and the guard was overwhelmed. The bandits didn’t care about some old man, and let him escape on foot. The arrow was from their opening volley, which only found him by chance. Still, they caused his death. I know you’ve been looking for a proper mercenary job. And while I cannot afford to pay a group of adventurers to wipe those damned bandits from the very memory of the land, I can recommend you to the local militia and they can pay in gold. What say you?”

Zand took a long swig of ale. He let the words swirl in his head. He did seek adventure, but join a militia? No one said he’d have to join for life.

“Count me in.”

***********************

Several days later Zand was riding in the back of a covered wagon with some other members of the militia. On the outside the wagon looked normal, but the inside was reinforced to keep the men safe from arrows. It wouldn’t do to have them skewered before they’d even had a chance to act. The entire merchant caravan was a ruse, with each man a member of the militia or a member of the city watch. Some of the more slender men had been dressed in bright scarves to look like women, which would usually be a part of a caravan. There would also be children, but it would be expected that they ride in the covered wagons. The sacks were loaded with leaves to give the appearance of goods, and the barrels were filled with water, mostly. No ale was allowed, so that the men would be fresh and keen when the time came.

The caravan had been on the road for two days now, and the likelihood of attack should have been low. The trip would be two weeks long and the best time to strike is in the middle. That assumes the bandits were thinking ahead, but not all bandits had effective leadership. That was good for the kingdom, but it also meant that Zand could not let his guard down at all during the trip. Besides, the old man’s caravan had been attacked less than one day’s walk from town.

***********************

The caravan made it without issue, which was actually problematic. It was assumed that within the first 3 days they would be attacked, so only 6 days worth of food had been brought. And while many members of the militia and city watch could have easily hunted for food, they had to maintain the illusion of their caravan. After 3 days, everyone was cut to half rations. When the terrain allowed for it, a small hunting team was permitted to hunt, but were required to bring back something special. Again, to maintain illusion. No caravan of merchants would resort to eating striped rat or crow. No, only a wild deer would suffice. Deer were of course hard to hunt, which meant the team came back empty handed. Several wild pigs were spotted, but were left alone.

The commander called for Zand on the fourth night.

“I understand you have magical abilities. Tell me, can you create food?” The commander asked.

“It is not something I have ever tried to do. If you would like, I can attempt to this evening in my tent, but I can make no guarantees anything will come of it. Other than my getting a terrible headache,” Zand replied.

“Mmmm, yes. Please do. And if you can create enough food for twenty men, even better. Dismissed.”

Zand returned to his tent and thought of possible foods he might try to make. He wanted cheese most of all, so he decided to start there. He pictured a small wheel of goat cheese in his head and placed his hands apart as if to hold it. He tried to imagine its taste and texture, the smell and the weight of it. His eyes were closed as he focused intently, but his curiosity got to him. Opening one eye, he spotted something floating in the space between his hands. He tried to grab it, but found only his other hand. Whatever it had been, was no more. He wrote it off as hunger-induced hallucination and tried again.

After several more attempts, all Zand had successfully accomplished was giving himself a headache as he feared. He carefully tried to channel the rising magic to his muscles, but most of it dissipated harmlessly into the aether. His muscles tingled a bit where the magic touched them, but he did not notice any real benefit. Feeling exhausted, Zand got into his bedroll and fell quickly asleep.

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I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.

The Mercenary's Path part 9

Zand spent several days at the inn mending. He had been unable to afford medical attention due to the loss of the twins’ gear, but the innkeeper was willing to extend him credit due to his affiliation with Davros and Grigor. He was at least able to wash out the cuts with soap and hot water. Zand also spent many hours trying to force magical healing on himself. He had heard that some sorcerers of renown had devised new spells through sheer willpower and magical aptitude, but all he ended up with were headaches from the intense focus.

When his bruises were only yellow and his scabs thin and flaking, Zand was called upon to help around the inn. The innkeeper required one day of work per two days of stay, and provided free room and board during the time it would take to work off the debt. Zand appreciated the chance to work off his debt, and he much enjoyed the stew that was served at dinner, so it was not a bad deal at all. The days went by with Zand preparing the cooking fire in the morning, a simple thing to do with magic, as well as scrubbing the floors, a thing he had to do with his own muscles and sweat. He wondered how the innkeeper managed all this before, as there were no other people working. It was standard for an inn to be run by a family, but the black flu had taken his wife while she was with their first child.

***********************

After five days, the innkeeper declared the debt paid. He then offered Zand the opportunity to stay on as his employee, but Zand was already refusing before he heard the terms. There was almost no chance he would ever develop his powers by staying and working at the inn. He needed to be out in the world, seeking adventure and taking risks. The innkeeper made an offer then that if Zand would stay two more nights and work just one more day, he would hand over three gold coins as well as some dried meat and journey bread. Zand realized it was a generous offer, unless he had been undervalued in his time working off the debt. Either way, it was enough money to last him a week while he sought a more adventurous job. They shook on the deal, and Zand agreed to delay his departure by two days.

***********************

Zand frequented the taverns, looking to sell his sword. No one had any bandits to clear out or lost children to find. He missed Davros and Grigor, and even more so the adventure they provided. With only a few silvers left in his pouch, even a lost cat would be welcome right now.

“It’s terrible! All that blood and gore!” an old man burst in, bleeding from the shoulder. “Mead, and some bandages, if you have them!”

The barkeep disappeared into the back room and returned with a small wooden box, which he sat on the table next to the old man. He walked by the fire and placed the poker in the flames, then fetched a mug and filled it from a tankard.

“I’ll comp your next mug and dinner if you’ll help me, mage,” the barkeep said as he pulled a basin from behind the bar.

“Sure, what do you need?” Zand asked, thankful to stretch his last coins.

The barkeep sent him to fill the basin from the well. When he returned, he found the old man barechested with half an arrow sticking from the shoulder.

“Do you know how to put a man to sleep? With magic, I mean,” he said, pulling out a small bottle from the box and setting it in on the table.

“No. We always just relied on a solid club on the back of the head for that,” Zand replied, wondering if he could learn how to put someone to sleep through magic.

“Bah, well, a deal’s a deal. Fine. Set that down on the table. Can you come and hold him?” the barkeep said, then to the old man, “Here, bite down on this piece of cloth.”

Zand positioned himself to hold him down while the bartender checked on the poker. It was glowing red. He nodded to it and headed back to old man. He called to another patron and offered a free mug if he’d hold the poker. Satisfied with his preparations, he sat on the man’s lap facing him. He steadied his left hand on the shoulder and the other grasped the wood. Zand grabbed the man by biceps. The barkeep took a deep breath and then pulled with great effort. The old man moaned in agony and tried to buck the men loose, but he did not have the strength. A second tug pulled the arrow free. The old man screamed. Zand wanted to cover his ears, but knew he needed to keep the man still. The barkeep grabbed a cloth from the box and dipped it in the water before wiping away the blood. Then he grabbed the small bottle and pulled the cork with his teeth and then poured a small amount into the wound. The screaming intensified.

“Take this, don’t spill. Now give me the poker. Not that end, the handle.”

The barkeep twisted the rod around and placed the red end to the wound, causing a terrible smell to fill the air. The old man fainted at this point, thankfully. After a few more seconds, the barkeep pulled the poker back and inspected the wound. He grabbed another cloth and dipped it in the water and wiped over the cauterized flesh. It looked as good as he could do it. He stood and then walked over to put the poker back in the fire to burn away the blood. He then placed it in a metal bucket to cool. He walked back and took the small bottle, eyed how much was left and then poured a little more onto the wound. He stoppered the bottle and then dressed the wound.

“Dinner too if you help us carry him to that corner,” he said to the man who had held the poker.

The three of them carefully picked up the old man and lay him on the floor out of the way. The barkeep disappeared into the back again and returned with a thin blanket, which he draped over the old man.

“Right. Thanka both. I’ve studied yer faces, come back tonight for your payment. I’ve got to close up for a while,” turning to the rest of the room, “Alright, shows over. I’ve got to close up for now. Come back after sunset.”

The Mercenary's Path part 8

It had been over an hour since Thom fought, and he grew restless. While he was still several hours away from any ill effects of taking springthyme, his focus was waning from lack of action. Even watching the duels was growing tiresome. He looked around and saw M’kesh lying on the ground, not watching the fights. How could he be so nonchalant?

“The next match will be between Thom and M’kesh,” announced Lady Matilda.

M’kesh casually sat up and then stood. Thom already had his sword out and was in a ready stance. M’kesh seemed to be waking from a nap, based on his luxurious stretch and yawn.

“Begin!” yelled Sir Patt.

Thom hoped to overtake his opponent before he could properly arm himself. He charged with his shield in front, his sword arm coiled. M’kesh finished yawning and looked around for his shield, which was apparently not where he left it. Just before Thom would have connected, he spotted it several feet away and walked toward it, dodging the charge handily. Thom tried to stop, but was going too fast. He regained his footing and spun toward his opponent, who was now carrying his shield on his back like a turtle shell. Thom’s anger boiled at the lack of respect his opponent seemed to be showing him. Thom advanced, but kept his eyes open for any tricks. M’kesh pulled his sword out, carrying it underhanded, and crouched low as if to pounce. Thom now understood why the shield was on his back. Thom thought back on his training. To fight a tiger, which is what he imagined M’kesh as now, spears were much more suitable. He needed to draw M’kesh into pouncing at the wrong time. Thom advanced, trying to exaggerate an opening. M’kesh took the bait, flinging himself forward, swinging his sword at Thom’s legs. Thom was ready, and hopped to the side, then spun and struck M’kesh across the back of his thigh. Had the sword been bladed, it would have been hampering. Still, cold steel did not feel nice against flesh, even when blunt. M’kesh landed clumsily. He began to stand, when Thom struck a blow against his back. The shield helped, but still it was a powerful blow. M’kesh tumbled away, trying to find time to properly make his own offense. Thom did not chase after the rolling form, but instead took a ready stance and calculated his next move. M’kesh stood and slipped the shield off his back and carried it in his off hand, sword in the proper position. He hoped the normalcy of his equipment would give Thom pause. It did. Thom saw how well M’kesh could handle sword and shield combat with his offhand, and wondered how much better he might be using his proper sword arm. M’kesh advanced, but with a slight limp. Thom smiled, knowing that his strike had found home. They both charged, shields smashing into each other. M’kesh was knocked back a couple of steps, and Thom pressed his advantage of strength. Thom bashed M’kesh’s shield and swiped at his leg. The steel connected and M’kesh collapsed on the spot. Before Thom could claim victory, M’kesh struck his knee. Now both were on the ground, but Thom was on his back. Thom tried to back away, but his knee spiked with pain. It was a serious injury, unlike M’kesh’s, which were merely painful. M’kesh advanced to place his sword on Thom’s neck, but Thom lurched forward, striking M’kesh in the eye, rupturing it, as the dull metal forced its way inward. M’kesh screamed out and swung wildly at Thom’s head, missing only just.

“Halt!” yelled all three knights in near unison.

M’kesh no longer cared about the rules and flung himself at Thom. Thom was in no position to defend himself and quickly found M’kesh atop his body, trying to strangle him. Thom tried to break M’kesh’s hold, but could not. As the air in his lungs became old, he lost consciousness.

***********************

When Thom came to, it was night. He was in a bed that was not his own and pain radiated across his body when he tried to move. He decided to lay there and hope someone came to his aid.

Some minutes later, a door opened.

“Don’t try to get up. You’ve been through a lot and need your rest,” a voice said. It sounded familiar, but he was unable to focus well enough to figure it out.

The person moved into sight. It was Master Grahm, an apothecary appointed to overseeing the knights’ well-being. He carried a small bottle, which he uncapped and put to Thom’s lips.

“This will help with your pain and let you sleep.”

Thom opened his mouth and swallowed the oily liquid. It hurt greatly to swallow and he hoped it would take effect soon. Master Grahm placed his hand on Thom’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze and then left the room. Thom was asleep before he heard the door close.

***********************

Thom woke up in much pain, and with a full bladder to boot. He felt only slightly better than he was when last he opened his eyes. There was no way he was going to be standing on his knee any time soon. Groping around the ground below his bed he found a chamber pot. Thankfully, it was empty and clean. He worked himself into a sitting position over the edge of the bed and managed to mostly make it all into the vessel. He pushed it back under the bed before wiping his hands on the foot of the blanket. There was a small bottle on the table next to the bed and he uncapped it before swallowing the contents. It tasted different than the last one, but he assumed it was medicine all the same. Laying back down, he tried to go back to sleep when he remembered the springthyme. Had he managed to sleep past its ill-effects? He fell asleep hoping so.