Post by Dominion of Zabéara on Mar 25, 2015 0:17:22 GMT
Newly an adult, my parents sent me to travel to the regional village with the season's crop. I had gone several times before in my youth, but my father and my uncle had led the trip. I was their helper, staring wide eyed at the wonders of the small town, with its market, many shops that held fantastic goods that defied my imagination. I would stand silent in the stall, aiding them as they sold their fungus to those who came by.
But this time, my father was sick, and my uncle had been arrested for smuggling half a -meta cycle ago. So the clan sent my cousin and I with the recent crop. There was great anxiety in our journey; it was our first alone, and the transported crop worth at least 20,000 zari.
We hoped to impress our elders by fetching 25 or 30 thousand zari for the crop of fungi and various molds. What happened in town we could not have predicted.
A military officer of some stature visited their stall in the marketplace. I stood in awe of this being; with his impeccably polished tall helm crowned with colourful feathers, august and stern posture formed by years of harsh discipline, and clean red coat covered in bright insignia. To me he seemed as a being of another world; and truly in a way he was: His life, no doubt, was alien to poverty-stricken subsistence farmers such as us.
He carefully sampled our wares, delicately holding up pieces of dried mold and closely examining it. Like a connoisseur he sampled and savored it, letting it rest in his mouth before swallowing. Afterwords he turned to my cousin and I.
''I am the chief supply officer of the 201st Mechanized Legion, which is conducting summer exercises in the desert to the south-east. I require high quality foodstuff for the Dominion's warriors, and your fungi is certainly impressive.''
My cousin and I bowed in thanks, while the officer continued: ''I will buy your entire crop for 75,000 zari. Acceptable?''
We were dumbfounded. Was this a joke? A trick? Surely, this was some kind of scam! My cousin clearly thought the same, and quickly responded. ''Of course, your excellent, but we require the entire payment upfront.''
I entirely expected the officer to walk away, for this dream to turn sour. But the officer simply nodded. ''I will have supply troops come and pick it up in 3 sub-cycles. I will give you 10,000 zari now, and an adjunct will give the rest when they pick up the crop.''
He handed the money to my cousin, whose yellow eyes lit up at the heavy sack now cradled in his arms.
I turned to him and whispered. ''Do not take the payment and run, good little cousin. Warriors are not to be trifled with.'' I had little wish to end up in a prison colony mining cold asteroids in the deep dark of space.
That night, after the supply warriors came and picked up the cargo, paying in full, was the greatest of my life thus far. My cousin and I walked around town in a delirious state. Suddenly goods and wares we only had dreamed of were now possible. I went to a footwear artisan, threw away my homemade leather sandals for thick, comfortable fur boots. They felt like walking on clouds. Later, after sampling many of the towns other entertainments and replacing our rages with proper coats and hats, my cousin and I feasted at a real, actual restaurant. One of the dishes brought to us was sophisticated prepared and garnished mold cake which included fungi just like what we had sold to the soldier. When presented with all the many dishes of our meal, I wept.
The next day we started our journey home, returning to the dusty, barren caves of our clan, with ancient ''houses'' carved into the side of rock walls. Living much as we had since time immemorial. My cousin excitedly started to think of other ways to make money, but the encounter with the officer had changed my life in another way. His high quality boots and cloth, his search for huge amounts of high quality food for his troops.
I felt the residual pangs of hunger from my childhood. I recalled the foraging, the stealing from gardens to supplement food from home; the thrill of pulling a mushroom from the garden of a neighbor, whipping the dirt off it, and shoving it into my hungry mouth while fleeing from their own angry children.
Money is transitory. Good boots wear out. Good crops come and go as the maleki decide, and only they know the future. But I resolved to never face hunger or sandals again. After resting a forthnight with my family, I headed out to the town again. I headed out to join the Holy Army of the Dominion.
But this time, my father was sick, and my uncle had been arrested for smuggling half a -meta cycle ago. So the clan sent my cousin and I with the recent crop. There was great anxiety in our journey; it was our first alone, and the transported crop worth at least 20,000 zari.
We hoped to impress our elders by fetching 25 or 30 thousand zari for the crop of fungi and various molds. What happened in town we could not have predicted.
A military officer of some stature visited their stall in the marketplace. I stood in awe of this being; with his impeccably polished tall helm crowned with colourful feathers, august and stern posture formed by years of harsh discipline, and clean red coat covered in bright insignia. To me he seemed as a being of another world; and truly in a way he was: His life, no doubt, was alien to poverty-stricken subsistence farmers such as us.
He carefully sampled our wares, delicately holding up pieces of dried mold and closely examining it. Like a connoisseur he sampled and savored it, letting it rest in his mouth before swallowing. Afterwords he turned to my cousin and I.
''I am the chief supply officer of the 201st Mechanized Legion, which is conducting summer exercises in the desert to the south-east. I require high quality foodstuff for the Dominion's warriors, and your fungi is certainly impressive.''
My cousin and I bowed in thanks, while the officer continued: ''I will buy your entire crop for 75,000 zari. Acceptable?''
We were dumbfounded. Was this a joke? A trick? Surely, this was some kind of scam! My cousin clearly thought the same, and quickly responded. ''Of course, your excellent, but we require the entire payment upfront.''
I entirely expected the officer to walk away, for this dream to turn sour. But the officer simply nodded. ''I will have supply troops come and pick it up in 3 sub-cycles. I will give you 10,000 zari now, and an adjunct will give the rest when they pick up the crop.''
He handed the money to my cousin, whose yellow eyes lit up at the heavy sack now cradled in his arms.
I turned to him and whispered. ''Do not take the payment and run, good little cousin. Warriors are not to be trifled with.'' I had little wish to end up in a prison colony mining cold asteroids in the deep dark of space.
That night, after the supply warriors came and picked up the cargo, paying in full, was the greatest of my life thus far. My cousin and I walked around town in a delirious state. Suddenly goods and wares we only had dreamed of were now possible. I went to a footwear artisan, threw away my homemade leather sandals for thick, comfortable fur boots. They felt like walking on clouds. Later, after sampling many of the towns other entertainments and replacing our rages with proper coats and hats, my cousin and I feasted at a real, actual restaurant. One of the dishes brought to us was sophisticated prepared and garnished mold cake which included fungi just like what we had sold to the soldier. When presented with all the many dishes of our meal, I wept.
The next day we started our journey home, returning to the dusty, barren caves of our clan, with ancient ''houses'' carved into the side of rock walls. Living much as we had since time immemorial. My cousin excitedly started to think of other ways to make money, but the encounter with the officer had changed my life in another way. His high quality boots and cloth, his search for huge amounts of high quality food for his troops.
I felt the residual pangs of hunger from my childhood. I recalled the foraging, the stealing from gardens to supplement food from home; the thrill of pulling a mushroom from the garden of a neighbor, whipping the dirt off it, and shoving it into my hungry mouth while fleeing from their own angry children.
Money is transitory. Good boots wear out. Good crops come and go as the maleki decide, and only they know the future. But I resolved to never face hunger or sandals again. After resting a forthnight with my family, I headed out to the town again. I headed out to join the Holy Army of the Dominion.