Apart from the tattered clothes on his back, Exill had received two possessions from Verill so far. The Hunter was sitting across from him, a serious expression on his face as he prepared tools necessary to herbalists with his one functioning arm. Exill worked up his courage and finally asked, "Why go to such lengths for me?"
Verill stopped what he was doing and looked up. His confusion evident as the eyebrows knitted together on his ruggedly handsome face. The Hunter didn't recognise the question at first, that is, until he saw Exill's earnest expression. A darkness crossed his eyes before it resolved into a bittersweet smile, "Can't a stranger look out for his little brother?"
Exill suspected there was more to it than that but held his tongue. He sat in awkward silence as his mentor continued to prepare the equipment.
"Alright, it's ready. Please take out the herbs you picked yesterday."
Exill took herbs out of the grass pouch and sorted them by category. Verill proceeded to guide him in crafting a basic poultice, grinding, and combining two ingredients together. The resulting foul-smelling paste was scraped into a wooden pot. As Exill closed the lid he felt a resonant [Ping!] deep in his core. Excitedly opening the Card, he confirmed that a new job had been acquired.
Herbalist: level 1, Passive Buff: +10% efficacy for crafted medicinal items (scales with level).
'With this, I might not be able to cast healing magic, but I should be able to recover from minor injuries!'
Verill saw Exill's excitement and knew he had succeeded, "Did you get [Herbalist]? It is a respectable second job. When you get to Ark you should grab a portable pestle and mortar like this one." Verill held up the small granite basin.
Exill agreed and decided to put the new poultice to the test. He wrinkled his nose while opening the wooden pot and tentatively started treating his wound. It looked a lot better, and the swelling had subsided from the angry glossy red to a lesser pink. Looking up, he saw Verill was doing the same. The swelling on his forearm had subsided somewhat and the gash had mended over.
The two helped themselves to a portion of boiled oats for lunch while the caravan continued to rest. They had accentuated the meal with a fistful of herbs and mushrooms picked the day before, giving it a rich earthy aroma – to the grunt of approval of many refugees.
"We should reach river Arn by nightfall if we make good speed and the World willing." The lead Navigator said in a clear voice. Exill and many others overheard the Navigator discussing the remaining distance with his colleagues. Sidling closer, he glimpsed a worn map showing a complex landmass surrounded by water. He wasn't familiar with their unit for distance, but it appeared to be based on how far a mule cart could travel in a day.
Pulling an educated guess, it was about 25 miles a day, meaning the total distance between their point of origin and the capital was around 175 miles. This was the distance between London and Manchester, or Philadelphia and Washington DC. 'All this effort to cross a distance that could easily be covered in four hours on the expressway…' he thought belatedly.
Hearing the news that they could reach the river by nightfall, the other villagers packed up camp quickly in the hopes of having a good wash before going to bed. The caravan made good speed and in high spirits. They could soon see the river in the distance. It flowed through the forest from their right, down to wide open plains below, snaking lazily and catching the red glint of the setting sun.
As the caravan approached the river the Navigator exclaimed, "We will cross the river and make camp on the far banks!"
The refugees gained a burst of second wind as the end was nearly in sight. They could finally wash and refill their water reserves!
"Why are some people throwing coins into the river?" Exill asked his companion as they began to cross the bridge. The bridge was of ancient construction, crafted from a grey rock that had been worn smooth over the ages. It spanned a fast-flowing river 20m (60ft) wide. Two crystalline monuments stood on either end, glowing softly with inscriptions.
"Is this your first time crossing a bridge?" Verill smiled light-heartedly at the boy's unworldly youth before continuing, "It is a spiritual place, a point of transition. I guess some pray for better fortune, while others pray for something to return to. Everyone's bridge is different…" he shrugged.
'I hope we arrive at Ark safe and sound.' Exill didn't have any coins to throw in the river, but made the wish, nevertheless.
Once over the bridge, the cart drivers expertly manoeuvred their charges so that it formed an impromptu barricade in the direction of the forest. With the river to their rear, it was a highly defensible position. People dropped their baggage and happily waded out to the shallow waters, washing their hair, and beating the dirt off their wet clothes.
Exill took care to clean around the wound in his ribs and set to cleaning his clothes. He tried to avoid looking around as scantily clad women and men determinedly washed their garments on the rocky riverbank.
"Let me wash your clothes for you." He helped untie Verill's sling, then carefully lifted the stained tunic over the splinted arm. Returning to the river, he rinsed and wrung dry the bloodied tunic as best as he could.
"Thanks." Verill was grateful as Exill lowered the still damp clothes over his broad shoulders.
Someone had set up a fishing line on the bridge and two campfires were quickly set ablaze, driving the encroaching darkness away. As night fell, the refugees gathered closely around the fire as their wet clothes clung to their bodies. They were cold but full of smiles as they rubbed their clothes dry.
A large fish with shiny blue scales was caught on one of the lines. It was quickly gutted, scaled, and added to the oat stew that was happily bubbling over the fire. Exill was very pleased with the stew. Although he hadn't been a big fan of seafood in his previous life, the freshly caught fish was tender and delicious.
Clean, and with his hunger sated, Exill reapplied his poultice and covered it with a freshly washed and dry strip of linen. As he pulled his shirt back on, he heard a rip as the slit near his ribs suddenly widened. Hearing this, a kindly looking woman sauntered over and offered a spare needle and length of string. Exill gladly accepted the tool.
After some thought he assigned his first job as [Crafter], something the old Exill had undoubtedly unlocked in his early life. Carefully threading the needle, he started to close the split that threatened to propagate across the shirt. When he was done, he was satisfied with the work. It wasn't neat but it would hold. There was a hint of disappointment that there was no [Ping!] that denoted a new skill had been acquired.
He had overheard from the women while journeying that [Tailor] was a Tier 2 progression of the [Crafter] skill. It appeared to be a popular topic, discussing how it increased the quality and durability of their needlework. They would often compare stitches, discussing how many years of experience they had. One elderly seamstress who had travelled the entire distance by cart so far was said to have [Tailor] as her primary job. The women all agreed that her needlework was legendary in spite of her declining eyesight.
Despite being let down by the absence of the resonant feeling, Exill checked the Card and found a curious sight. The new job [Tailor] was there… but it was greyed out and couldn't be assigned. Inspecting it closely, he read the following description:
[Requirements: Crafter lvl 20]