Chapter 3: Chapter 3
"Take your dirty mitts off the ladle, you going to ruin me soup!"
"Did you just assume my job proficiency? I'll let you know I've been cooking for the better part of twenty years and everyone in the village agrees that me pudding, is to die for!"
"Are you from Hillsmead? Hmph, no wonder! I heard not a single woman in that village has [Cook] as their main job. There's a difference between twenty years cookin' as a primary job and that of a secondary job! I wouldn't be surprised if the men of your village ate pig slop and mistook if for fine dining!"
The two exploded into expletives as bystanders tried to hold the women apart. Exill approached the group warily as he limped towards the cauldron, not entirely sure what they were arguing about. The group quietened down as they noticed the nearing figure who was obviously in a bad state. A middle-aged man jogged up to Exill and lent his shoulder.
"Easy there lad, you're safe now. Where are you from, Hillsmead..? Draughton..? Lindtree?" Finally nodding when the man mentioned Lindtree, his voice croaked as he struggled to answer.
"Martha you mad woman, stop yer fighting and grab a bowl for the lad. His throat so dry he barely be speakin!" The man admonished the woman in charge of the ladle and quickly helped seat Exill down near the fire. He grabbed the bowl offered by Martha and put it on Exill's lap as he sat down next to the boy.
A delicious scent wafted up to Exill's nose as he looked down at the creamy red broth, filled with what appeared to be a mixture of barley and oats. Suddenly realized how hungry he was, he began to dig in. Under the keen observation of the group he devoured the meal, and the man next to him passed a warm mug of brew just as Exill finished the last drop.
"So… how was it at Lindtree?"
"Were there many survivors?"
"My cousin lived there, do you know Tollen? Did you see him?"
Prompted by the barrage of questions, Exill experienced nausea as visions flashed before his eyes. He witnessed a quiet village surrounding a large Linden tree. A young boy with a toothy grin. The corpses of those who would not yield. He could only shake his head to dispel these images.
"I'm sorry, I only saw one other survivor, Lindtree is… just ashes now."
The group quietened down. Many simply stared into their bowls with dull eyes or expressions of sadness. All of them had lost something dear to them in the last few days, most had escaped with only the clothes on their backs. A muted discussion sprang up amongst a group of men.
"I heard the Afrye made a landing at Seaford, and that they captured the port city of Osvig in the south.
"The Spirit bless us, our kingdom's army is split across three fronts!"
"No wonder they pushed so deep into our eastern border. A battle hasn't been fought near Hillsmead in centuries!"
The mutterings died down and Exill directed his attention to the surroundings. From the small hill that the refugee camp was perched on, he could view far into the east. Exill could see the dim embers of Lindtree village as well as distant flashes of light over the horizon where conflict continued deep into the night.
From the snippets of conversations gathered over the fire, Exill pieced together the story of what had happened. The Afrye had launched a surprise offensive a week ago, pushing past Lindtree village, which was near the border, deeper into the Kingdom. They were finally repelled after reaching Hillsmead, and the majority of the survivors were residents of that village.
The kindly middle-aged man next to Exill took out a small wooden pot and opened it, revealing a foul-smelling red paste and motioned him with an upward swing of his hand.
"Raise your shirt me lad, ye' got red on yer."
Exill lifted his shirt to reveal a shallow gash on his ribs, as well as extensive bruising. The flickering fire reflected the surprised faces as they tutted over his wounds. The man tested his ribs by applying pressure to them gently, causing him to take a sharp intake of breath. The gash was then cleaned, dried, and covered with a pungent red poultice, before it was wrapped with a fresh strip of linen.
"I don't think yer ribs are busted by the look of things but best take a good rest, you must be tired and there's spare bedding over yonder."
Exill stood up with the man's help and thanked him as he tottered over to the enticing bed of straw. Tired and hurt, he soon collapsed into a deep slumber.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone