I wake up to one more day. I open my eyes but do not get up; today feels like it might be my last day. Lying there with half-closed eyes I assess: the documentaries I watched, Karo's memories and knowledge, my strategic mind, the books I've read for years and the games I played… They are all in front of me; I have the opportunity to use them all. If I want, I could stand in their eyes like a god; I carry that kind of power. From what I gather from their eyes, fire for them is only something that burns on its own in nature; I need to show that I can control it.
Beneath those sentences: a low, steady thrum of anticipation sits under my ribs. The memory of what I learned, which spark makes a ember, how wind feeds flame, how to nurse a small heat until it roars, runs through me like a recipe I can perform with closed eyes. Outside, the village is still waking: smoke threads up from a few hearths, and somewhere a child calls. If I show them a controlled flame tonight, the distance between myth and man will narrow by the breadth of an ember.
While occupied with these thoughts, shouts of "Ragno!" come from outside. When I get up and go out, I see three or four people; they have come to take me to the village and to help carry my belongings. When they see that enormous bird I trapped the other day, they flinch for a moment and then look at me in astonishment. I tell them to stay calm: "Dead. It is our dinner tonight." Their minds ease; they shoulder the burden and carry it.
The way they move when they handle weight tells me more about them than their questions would. Shoulders roll under the load, feet find paths through the scrub like worn grooves; their faces fold into concentration, respect given quietly. I tie the last strap, check the bundle, and feel the odd harmony of being both hunter and curiosity in their eyes.
I gather my things and put them on; I check so nothing is left behind. We set off for the village. When we arrive they show me the corner of a cave I will live in; small, earthen-floored, but I am new here and I need to prove myself. As people pass me after yesterday's victory they congratulate me; I am proud. From afar I see Karlmos: he still bears wounds, exhausted, while two or three women beside him rub soil on his injuries. This treatment method seems strange to me; isn't there a risk of infection? I tuck that thought into a corner of my mind; later I could help them with wound care.
The cave corner they assign smells faintly of smoke and damp stone. I run my hand along the edge where they will lay hides and think about how to improve whatever small comfort I can bring them. Karlmos' battered silhouette is a reminder that even victors need tending, a lesson I plan to turn into practical help when they allow me closer.
When the chief comes he says he will show me the village and that he has expectations of me. He asks that I teach them what I know. He states his name is Pre; the last word is always his. The village is small; about 25 men, 40 women, and 5–10 children. Primitive but with division of labor: some make tools, some prepare food, some watch the children, the goal is survival. As we walk I constantly look around and note their tools and treatment methods; I am sure I will advance quickly here.
The layout of the huts, the angle of the drying racks, the way certain stones are used as anvils, all of it is a map to read. Their techniques are raw but functional: a chipped flake here, a neatly twisted fiber cord there. My head catalogs possibilities: how to improve a spear socket, where to place a smoke pit to dry meat better, which leaves staunch blood and which irritate it.
Children come up and touch me; they are fascinated by my hands and my muscles. The women watch carefully, eager and curious; some men congratulate me, others eye me with jealousy. As I walk this small village a confidence grows: with my knowledge and skill I can make a difference.
A child presses his small palm to my forearm and grins; a woman studies the weave of my belt and mimics the movement of my fingers. Jealous men watch from the shade, hands resting on clubs with the old habit of measuring a stranger by fist. The rhythm of the place sinks into me: a machine running slowly but purposefully.
Shortly after Chief Pre leaves for some matters, Annabel, that beautiful woman, appears beside me; she smiles and congratulates me, with a friend at her side. After a little talk I offer to prepare food for them in the evening and I ask her to tell everyone. As she listens she leans close to my ear and says, "You're safe here now, but be careful; not everyone has accepted you." I know this; I can see the eyes watching me. Being strong and durable is not enough; I must keep good relations with people. Word spreads quickly: tonight I will roast that huge bird in my cave and serve the meat I accumulated.
Her whisper leaves a shadow of caution on my skin. I nod and hear the murmur begin like a wind that starts in one hut and travels. That same whisper draws glances from doorways, and I realize the social web is already reweaving around me.
I sit and begin; as people gather in the square I start skinning the bird. As always I perform the delicate work; this time I am using a short, fine knife instead of my long spear, faster and more precise. Others stop what they are doing and watch me; I am one of them now. I shout out loud: "Anyone who wants to learn, come and sit beside me. I am one of you now." Some come, some do not; most form a ring around me. I narrate the steps as I go: "Now I skin it, now I remove its organs," I say. They watch carefully.
My hands move in a practiced rhythm: cut, pry, peel; the long muscle cords reveal themselves, pale and knotty. The crowd watches the mechanics of necessity turned into craft, eyes following the path of each blade stroke.
After I remove the bird's skin and break it into parts I prepare it for cooking. At that moment a child, behind my back, takes a strip of meat and starts to bite it. When I ask why he didn't wait for it to cook, his answer shocks me: "What does cooking mean?" So this village does not know how to cook with fire. Maybe they watched my fire story at the cave entrance, but most of them have never seen it.
The child's words hang in the air like a bruise, their innocence and lack of knowledge are stark. To them, raw meat is just meat; the transformation into warmth and softness is a foreign idea. The knowledge I hold might seem like a trivial trick to me, but to them it is a key.
Now is the moment to demonstrate. I stand up, gather twigs and dry wood, and bring logs. Everyone watches; many have fear in their eyes, some curiosity. I arrange the pile carefully, stacking the dry material with intention. I stand in the middle of the square and announce loudly: "I am Ragno. I am one of you now. I faced a great warrior like Karlmos and I lived. Now I will show you the secret of warmth and good food, fire. Let the feast begin!" I strike two large stones together to create sparks and carefully guide them to the tinder; as the sparks catch, the pile sighs into flame.
At the first sparks, some people shout and step back, some raise clubs towards me; but the majority watch with awe and excitement forming on their faces. "It is only fire," I say, "it will burn you only if you let it. Come closer, warm yourselves." Reluctantly, they come forward. I place the meat on a flat stone, heating it slowly; fat hisses and the scent rises. People watch, rapt. As each piece finishes I lay it onto leaves and hand it out.
The scene is small and perfect: the first real warmth after cold, the first time a piece of meat softens in a mouth that had known only toughness and gnawing. Someone inhales the steam, eyes widening at the taste. Laughter starts, then more voices answering. The difference is physical: less chattering of teeth, bellies settling, the evening softening.
When the meat is gone, I circle the remaining carcass with snares so that the escaping bird will not return and scatter its corpse. I explain the traps before setting them, stressing that I do not want to ensnare any of my new people, they are not to be harmed through ignorance. I mean to catch the other bird if it comes; I am hungry too, after all.
[+90 XP]
Intelligence +1
Reputation: Curiosity → Interested
By the end of the night, bellies full and a light admiration among them, I feel the fatigue of the first day pressing into my bones. Returning to the cave, my body is heavy and tired, but my mind hums with a steady calm and a sense of responsibility: I taught them something today, and tomorrow I can teach more. There is a ceremony to join the tribe officially tomorrow; I must rest and tend my wounds.