With the main structure solid and plastered, Elos turned his attention to furnishings, his mind already sketching layouts. He scoured the nearby, sparser forest for suitable fallen branches from tough pines. These became his raw material. He used his digging knife to hack and saw, its edge protesting with every cut, and a sharpened stone to smooth and shape the wood, a slow, painstaking process.

The bed was the first priority, a crucial element for restorative rest. He built a simple platform of interlocked branches, raised slightly off the damp ground for insulation against the cave's natural coolness. He then covered it with layers of dried grasses, collected from the sunnier slopes, and aromatic pine needles, topping it with a surprisingly soft, deep layer of carefully gathered moss from shaded, damp crevices. It was rudimentary, but vastly superior to sleeping on cold, uneven earth. "A bed," he murmured, running a hand over the rough moss, a small, weary smile on his face. "A place of true rest. Not just survival, but comfort. A small luxury, hard-earned, and deeply appreciated." Ivy, ever curious, tested the softness with a gentle hoof, before settling near the entrance, a silent, furry guardian.

Next, a table and a chair. He chose a flat, broad stone, perfectly smooth on one side, for the tabletop, propping it on stout, upright logs he’d embedded firmly into the hardened earth floor. The chair was a low, three-legged stool, surprisingly stable, perfect for hours of meticulous work and writing. These were not just functional items; they were symbols of his intent. A table for his studies, a chair for contemplation, a place to process the vast influx of knowledge. He saw himself sitting there, his journals spread out, surrounded by the fruits of his discoveries, the glow of the hearth illuminating his work.

The shelves were carved directly into the smoothed mud walls, recesses he carefully dug out and then lined with flat stones and reinforced with branches. These became his bespoke storage units, where he could store his growing collection of dried plants, his rudimentary tools, and eventually, his carefully preserved food. He envisioned them filled, a living library of Vasal's secrets, a testament to his cataloging passion. Ivy often rubbed her head against the lower shelves, as if inspecting his organization.

The hearth was the very heart of his new home, a glowing nexus of warmth and light. He chose a section of the back wall, away from the entrance and prevailing drafts, and carefully dug a shallow pit. He lined it with flat, fire-resistant stones he’d found in the stream bed, mortaring them securely with his mud mixture. Above it, he fashioned a crude but effective chimney, a vent dug through the highest point of the cave's roof and reinforced with mud-plastered branches, designed to draw smoke upwards and out, preventing it from filling the living space. The first time he lit a fire in it, the flames caught eagerly, sending a comforting crackle through the cave. The smoke curled obediently upwards, a clean, swift plume vanishing into the mountain air, and the heat radiated outwards, filling the cave with a blessed, pervasive warmth that melted the chill from his bones. He sat by it for hours, watching the dancing light, listening to the crackle and hiss, a profound sense of accomplishment washing over him. This was not just a fire; it was a symbol of his mastery, however small, over his environment.

"This," he said, the words soft but firm, filling the now cozy space, "this is what it means to build. To shape the world to your will, not just to survive within it. This is creation, in its purest form. And no temple, no dogma, can deny the truth of this warmth. This is my true worship."

With the shelter secured, Elos turned his full attention to food and water storage. Winter was rapidly approaching, the nights growing longer, the first dustings of frost appearing on the highest peaks like a solemn warning. His previous foraging had been for immediate sustenance, but now he needed volume, variety, and robust methods of preservation.

Water was a crucial concern. The oasis spring flowed year-round, but deep winter could bring heavy snows, potentially burying the spring opening or freezing it solid at the surface. He needed a way to store water inside the cave. He found several large, naturally hollowed gourds from a patch of withered vines he’d discovered, their interiors surprisingly clean. He also used his knife to carve out a deep, wide basin in the rock floor near the back of the cave, shaping it carefully to hold water. He lined this primitive cistern with layers of fine clay and then sealed it with a thin layer of hardened tree resin he’d collected, creating a surprisingly watertight reservoir. He would replenish it daily, drawing water from the spring with a smaller gourd, and if the surface of the spring froze, he knew he could melt snow over his hearth. To purify the stored water, he’d learned from ancient texts to boil it vigorously, then filter it through layers of fine sand and crushed charcoal he’d made from old fires, ensuring it was safe for consumption. This ensured a continuous supply of clean water, even if the spring became inaccessible.

He focused on the oasis's rich bounty for food. The 'Azure Bloom' berries were his most precious find, a concentrated burst of sweetness and energy. He gathered them meticulously, handful by handful, a slow, meditative process, placing them on flat, sun-warmed stones outside the cave during the day, covering them with large leaves at night to protect them from dew and curious creatures. The sun, though weaker now, was still effective, slowly shrinking the plump berries into sweet, concentrated morsels. He rotated them, ensuring even drying, until they were firm and shriveled, their vibrant blue deepened to an almost blackish-purple. He stored them in small, woven baskets he fashioned from tough river reeds, lining the baskets with dried moss to keep them dry and prevent spoilage.

Roots were another staple. He returned to the slopes where he’d found the 'Mountain Potato Bush,' digging patiently, unearthing more of the gnarled tubers. He brought them back to the cave, scrubbed them clean with sand and water, then sliced them thinly. Some he left to dry completely on a rack of branches suspended over the hearth, turning them into hard, brittle chips. Others, he boiled briefly to soften them, then pounded into a rough paste, which he spread onto flat stones and dried by the hearth's gentle heat, creating a kind of brittle, energy-rich cracker. He also found a different, starchy root, pale yellow and almost sweet, which he meticulously dried and pulverized into a fine powder for thickening stews.

His most exciting discovery, however, was a patch of wild grains, a type of hardy, tall grass with heavy seed heads, growing on a sun-drenched plateau a half-day's walk from the oasis. He’d recognized it from old texts, a type of 'mountain wheat,' supposedly resilient but difficult to process. He harvested handfuls of the mature seed heads, carefully threshing them by hand, beating the stalks against a flat rock to separate the tiny grains from the chaff. Ivy often watched this process with keen interest, sometimes even nudging a stray grain with her nose, as if offering to help.

The process of making flour was laborious and physically demanding. He used his mortar and pestle for smaller quantities, but for larger batches, he relied on two flat, heavy stones he’d carried back to the cave. Placing a handful of grains on the lower, stationary stone, he used the upper, rounded one to roll and grind, crushing the hard husks. It was slow, repetitive work, his arms aching, a dull ache in his shoulders, but the fine, pale powder that gradually accumulated was a testament to his perseverance, a concrete reward for his endless effort. He sifted it through a tightly woven piece of his old tunic, discarding the larger husks, until he had a surprisingly fine, off-white flour.

"Flour," he whispered, running his fingers through the soft powder, "the essence of sustenance. With this, winter will not claim me. No, not me. This is life, pure and simple, made by hand."

He tried his first flatbread on the very first hearth fire. Mixing the flour with water from the spring, a pinch of crushed salt he’d found near a mineral deposit, and a small amount of leavening agent from a certain type of mushroom he’d identified and carefully tested, he kneaded the dough until it was pliable. He flattened it into a thin disc and placed it directly on a hot, flat stone in the hearth. The aroma that filled the cave was intoxicating – earthy, warm, utterly comforting. It cooked quickly, bubbling and browning, filling the small space with the scent of wholesome nourishment. When he bit into it, the taste was rustic, hearty, a little dense, but utterly delicious, a profound satisfaction. It was the taste of self-sufficiency, of hard-won victory, of a new life taking root.

"A feast!" he exclaimed, holding the warm bread aloft, a genuine, wide smile splitting his dirt-smudged face. "A true feast! And no temple priest ever made bread so satisfying, so utterly mine!" He laughed then, a rich, unburdened sound that filled the cave, surprising even himself with its joyous resonance. Ivy, hearing his laughter, trotted over and nudged his hand, as if expecting a share, her intelligent eyes twinkling. He broke off a small, unseasoned piece for her, which she nibbled delicately.

He spent the remaining weeks tirelessly gathering. The shelves in his cave began to fill: bundles of dried herbs, their aromatic scents filling the air; baskets of shriveled, sweet berries; bags of precious flour; and stacks of dried root chips. He also continued his meticulous journaling, each entry a record of his growing expertise and his shifting perspective. The loneliness remained, a shadow at the edges of his consciousness, but it was often pushed back by the sheer volume of work, the urgency of survival, and the profound satisfaction of creation.

As his days settled into a rhythm, Elos found himself drawn further into the subtle life of the oasis. One afternoon, he discovered a small sunbird, its vibrant plumage dulled by dust, crumpled near one of the smaller pools. Its wing was bent at an unnatural angle, and a faint, whimpering sound escaped its beak. It was barely alive. Without hesitation, Elos knelt, his healer’s instincts overriding any thought of self-preservation. He gently cupped the trembling creature in his hands, marveling at its fragile form, then carried it carefully back to his cave. Ivy watched him, her head tilted, before following him inside.

Inside, bathed in the softer, filtered light, he began his work. He hummed a low, soothing tune, reminiscent of his grandmother Blossom’s lullabies, as he examined the tiny wing. The bone was fractured, a clean break. He knew the precise herbs for setting and mending, but here, he relied on his deeper, internal knowledge. He focused his mind, sending gentle pulses of his own healing energy into the bird's delicate structure, guiding its tiny cells to mend, to knit the bone. He fashioned a tiny splint from a strong, flexible reed, and secured it with a thin strip of soft fiber. For days, the bird remained in his care, fed tiny droplets of water and mashed berries. Ivy would occasionally peek at the bird, sometimes even nudging the small container of berries closer with her nose. Slowly, miraculously, the sunbird began to mend. Its eyes brightened, its whimpers ceased, and soon, it was fluttering weakly around the cave, its wing visibly straightening.