[center][h3]You Never Know[/h3][/center]
[i]11th of Midyear -- 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell[/i]


	The Alik’r used camels to traverse the deserts, and it wasn’t that Hammerfell was without horses; the horses here were long-legged, slender beauties with blonde or golden sheen on their coats like the sands, their black manes and tails like thin wisps – but they were native to the craggy ecosystems like Bangkorai and Hew’s Bane, which still had grasses and shrubs and running water for them to survive off of. They couldn’t store water like camels could or conserve their energy. Muscle was more demanding of nutrients than fat was, but even with as much fat as the little pony Danish had, his thick coat meant for surviving the frozen tundra of Skyrim spelled a cruel fate. Even while injured, the responsibility of taking care of another life weighed on Calen’s shoulders.

	As soon as he was able, he returned to his regular routine: get up early in the morning to draw water from the well. The desert night does well to keep that water chilled and being underground meant it was insulated from the day’s heat. Even though the weight of a bucket full of water hurt the torn muscles in his chest, he pressed on – he’d clean out Danish’s old water trough and replenish his hay and oats – an equally excruciating chore, before returning with more water to wash away the old sweat and stink from the pony overnight. The desert nights weren’t so cold that they could placate a cold-weather horse. Vigorously scrubbing through his thick coat with the brush was also excruciating, which amplified his irritation at Tobias, the stray goat of Rhona’s who seemed to have created a bond with Danish and constantly getting caught up in Calen’s feet while he’s working. Tobias would remind him of Rhona; he’d remind him of someone who had no place being in this warzone, who he hoped would simply find a way out of this land and someplace far away. He wasn’t so selfish to demand her company, no, he felt guilty. Part of him felt as though he was the reason she was still here, and Calen would shake his head at such thoughts. He was not someone worth risking their life over.

	He made sure to talk with the stable-master to place Danish in a stall facing the ocean so that a breeze would be blowing against him throughout the day, then returning every two hours with more cool water from the well to wash the sweat away from his fur and cool Danish down in junction with the ocean breeze. About as often, he’d replace the water trough that’d also warm up throughout the day. Hours and days of this meant occasionally reopening his wounds, where he'd then have to find Raelynn or Brynja after stopping the bleeding on his own. Sometimes, when he tired of making repetitive trips, he’d sit out at the stable, enjoying the atmosphere and the company of his pony and others. It kept him distracted from thoughts of that day, when he saved Latro from that bullet. At times he repressed the memory, at others, he faced them and confronted his emotions – mostly, it was fear. 

	It caused him to reflect on his life and what he’s done so far—what little he’s done so far. In his distractions, he remembered how he left his instruments on his wagon back in Anvil – he had nothing to play, and quite frankly, it was upsetting. He had played countless songs on the tools of his trade and he left them behind. He had to resort to just using his voice to pass the time, which was superb and drew the company of a few spectators, but he didn’t feel like it was the same... and singing in excess also hurt his chest. Everything was hurting his chest. Images of his nightmare of Cezare, plunging his sword into his chest would make it feel sore too. It was a funny thought that, even if the Dwemer spurred all his recent troubles on, it was only because he was associated with this group. He wouldn’t have gotten shot and he wouldn’t have stoked Cezare’s ire if he went his own way; but those were toxic thoughts that wouldn’t get him anywhere. So, he focused on Danish, on humming songs to himself in the morning, and on trying to get better.

	Part of getting better, he thought, was taking care of his mind. Seek out something productive to keep him occupied. He was never much of a cook or a baker, but he visited the local baker and dropped a few coins on their counter to trouble them for a lesson. He was no natural learner, and he messed up a few times, but he was determined to preoccupy himself. He learned quickly of the relaxed environment that a bakery had – it was neutral territory, and it was just the baker and the dough, a process of patience – as well as learning the process of milling wheat by hand. The grain was imported from the Gold Coast, that meant it became expensive ever since the Dominion embargo from Anvil. He’d mix it with water and kneaded the dough until he could stretch it out and it would still hold its shape. He’d ball it back up and allow it to rest for a short while, using his break to check back in with Danish. He’d return to the bakery to learn the next few steps.  More exercising the dough and more resting. Adding the yeast and more rest. It was a waiting game, meaning it would be a day or two until the dough was ready.

	When, yesterday, chaos filled the streets with blood and mayhem for reasons Calen could not discern – it was possible that Samara cell conducted another strike without his knowing; it was reasonable to assume they continued without him – all he could do was watch helplessly. The Dwemer were like an overwhelming force of nature, their weaponry like acts of god in how pulling their triggers were the summons for death. Hungering demands for blood. Still, he could not hate the deep elves; not when the citizenry of their people was as innocent as anyone. He watched from Danish’s stall in the stable as Dwemer women hid their children indoors and closed the curtains with as much fear in their eyes as the local Redguard mothers. He couldn’t hate them. He could fear them, reasonably so, but he couldn’t seek vengeance on them. Not with a clear conscience, knowing that he could possibly take it out on someone innocent—like that mother or her child. When the conflict began to dissipate and the resistance to Dwemer rule was quashed, he visited the Dwemer mother’s home and gifted them his first-ever loaf of handmade bread that he was hoping to eat after days of laboring, yet he offered it with a smile.

	He didn’t keep much of a journal. It was mostly just a logbook of people he has met; sketches and descriptions and tales. Perhaps he [i]should[/i] if he was going to record this segment of history, but such an aspiration seemed so… conceited. There was no promise that he’d survive this, that his name would be remembered, and it seemed like such a little thing in the shadow of actually [i]doing[/i] something, but he already tried doing something before. Talos knows how well that turned out. So, as if to practice, he started talking to Danish as if his pony was a real person.

	“So one of the gang came by earlier today.” He said, receiving no response. He continued, “Some kind of summons. Said Jude wanted everyone to gather around tomorrow at Three Crowns for some big news.”

	Danish, being a pony, did not respond.

	“I tried writing some lyrics lately. You know, to get back into the groove. How about it?”  Calen said before continuing.  “Yesteryear’s uncertainty… loses its charm, its luster of mystery, when you’re living through history?”

	Surprisingly, he invoked a response from Danish as the animal nickered, but undoubtedly, he had no real idea what Calen was saying. The bard chuckled to himself and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, a little too on the nose. And rhyming excessively sounds forced, honestly. How about…” Calen thought carefully for a second before continuing.

	“Don’t let the fires of your mind steal too much time? 
	Tears may be spilled, and with fear, your dreams overfilled, 
	and these cannot be fixed with just song and rhyme. 
	Be the early-riser and plant your seed, 
	sow the crops you wish to grow, 
	and only then can you be free. 
	Life is brief, 
	so don’t fear death, sweet child of mine. 
	Don’t let your mind steal too much time.”

	There was a pause of silence after Calen’s recital, allowing him a moment of reflection.

	“Yeah,” he finally said, “it needs some more work.”