Serran woke to the smell of herbs and incense wafting in the air.

He was still in the healing cabin, he noticed, but someone had moved him into one of the empty bedfurs and laid a blanket over him. The blanket which he used as a cocoon while he slept. Dear Treemother, why was the healing cabin always so cold?

Several plots away, the Dreamer was still unconscious… or perhaps sleeping, if their encounter in the Dreamvoid was any indication. Serran sluggishly dragged himself closer and cast a quick spell to check on his wound, and found that it was healing nicely. It didn’t seem to be infected either. That was good. His skin was cold, though, but Serran didn’t know if it was from the chilly healing cabin air, or from the lingering injury he got. Serran covered him with a fur blanket just to be safe.

However, he desperately needed to replenish himself before he could continue healing the Dreamer. His mana was severely depleted, and he could feel the beginning of an exhaustion-induced migraine creeping at the periphery of his vision. He also knew that the Dreamer would also need some food in him to help with his recovery, once he awakened, so he decided to get up and get some food.

After putting on his cowl, Serran ducked out of the healing cabin. Most of his Tribesfolk had already risen and gathered in the galley. Hunters and foragers had returned from their trip, bringing meat and vegetables back to the Tribeship. Cooks were cooking over the firepit, and the smell of morning meals wafted in the air. It was nice. It was warm too, warmer than the healing cabin.

“There he is”, Adri teased. “Finally coming to greet your fellow Tribesfolk?”

Serran rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he grabbed a mugful of hot gingered honeymilk and a raw egg. He cracked the egg at the lid and dumped its content into the mug whole, before downing the entire concoction in several long gulps.

The effect was immediate; energy returned into him, slowly. Serran didn’t even realize just how severely depleted he was until his mana returned to him, little by little. He tested small magic to glow at his fingertips, satisfied at the result.

“What’s wrong, Serranir? Your new lover tire you out?” one of the huntresses, Alena, laughed and made exaggerated kissing noises.

“Mannir, what does that mean?” one of the Tribeschildren, Vadril, asked to his mannir — brother — Varsel. 

“Something you’ll learn when you’re bigger”, Varsel answered, glaring fiercely at Alena. “And wiser.”

The other hunters, including Adri, erupted into laughter, while Alena scurried away from Varsel’s wrath. Varsel was a hunter too, one of the most respected ones who was often tasked to lead hunting parties. Alena would be a fool to incur his wrath.

Serran watched the interaction with a passing interest, before heading away to the food preparation area. Ilmena was on duty handling the food from the firepit, and she poured him a bowlful of herbal meat soup. Serran thanked her, and went to find his friends.

Luthi’en was sewing something, his tools scattered around him. He was of average height, with limp left leg and the deftest hands one could find around the Tribeship. Next to him, his daughter, Aisa, was coloring something on the lightpad. She was an exact copy of Luthi’en — only her eyes she got from her late mother.

Ithiven was there too, helping Aisa pick colors for her drawing. He was a tall and lanky young man, with pale freckled skin and a scar on his jaw.

“Hey”, Serran greeted them, before taking a seat next to Ithiven. Luthi’en looked up briefly, before moving his tools to give Serran some space to eat. His friends then resumed their conversation.

Serran ate slowly, savoring his soup. The meat was something the hunters brought back, he didn’t know what, but it tasted delicious. Soft and almost sweet, easy to tear with his teeth. It was well-cooked too, because he could also taste every single herb that seeped into it.

He was halfway through his bowl, before deciding that he was energized enough to join into the conversation around him.

“What are you working on?” Serran asked Luthi’en curiously. All he could see from where he sat was a mound of fabrics. One would presume that Luthi’en was making outfits for the whole Tribe.

“Aisa needs new clothes”, Luthi’en answered simply, and Aisa looked up briefly from her lightpad at the mention of her name.

“Aisilla, you ripped your clothes again?” Serran asked Aisa with her usual nickname.

“I climbed up to the crow’s nest the other day!” Aisa proclaimed proudly. “Ithivenir showed me a twin voidstar a few starclusters away! He said they’re the Treemother’s Eyes!”

That quite explained why she ripped her clothes.

“I heard from the hunters”, Ithiven began. “That you brought back another little bird to the Tribeship. Except the bird is an Alvon Dreamer.”

“And…?” Serran was unsure if Ithiven was asking her or simply making a statement.

“Well, I want to know if it’s true”, Ithiven said, awkwardly chuckling as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Please, please tell me it’s not true. The hunters had to be exaggerating, right? Like that one time they claimed they destroyed a fleet of Imperial battlecruisers?”

Serran sighed. “It is true.”

“No. Way”, Ithiven said in disbelieve. “Serran, what were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking that the Dreamer was injured and he needed my assistance”, Serran answered without missing a beat. “If you have a problem, you can bring it up to the Mender. She knows.”

“You cannot be serious!” Ithiven cried out. “Luthi’en, you have to tell her that she’s being unreasonable!”

“Who is being unreasonable?” A voice came from behind. Serran turned and saw her other friend, Lirien, was limping toward their corner. “Serran Malthis Avarrik, what did you do?”

“I brought a Dreamer back”, Serran answered, just as Ithiven said, “Serran brought a Chainsbreaker to the Tribeship!”

“You did what?!” Lirien turned sharply to Serran.

“Leave him be”, Luthi’en said with a sigh, without looking up from his handiwork. “Mender Ashna knows, and has no problem with the Chainsbreaker. Why should we?”

“Yes, thank you, Luthi’en”, Serran turned to the single father and smiled.

“Doesn’t mean I agree”, Luthi’en replied, shrugging, as he pulled at one particularly stubborn seam stitch with his teeth.

Serran rolled his eyes.

“If you can’t trust me, at least trust Mender Ashna”, he told his friends. “She allowed me to bring him into our midst, albeit reluctantly. At least, trust her judgment.”

Her friends, thankfully, begrudgingly agreed, and the conversation moved away from Serran and the Dreamer.