Tales of Wodean.docx

"Wodean," an old, raspy voice called from a stone and wood hut, which was followed by a brief coughing fit. "Where have you been, boy?"
"Sorry, dad," said Wodean, fixing the straps on his pack. He had been gathering kindling and wood for the fire.
It was to be a particularly cold night, as foretold by the village crone. She was rarely wrong, no matter how many people sometimes wished her forecasts were spottier; Wodean being one such person. They were too poor to afford appliances from the bigger town three miles away, things like a fire hearth where, with a flick of your wrist, a roaring fire ignites in an iron box, filling the room with warmth and comfort.
Wodean dreamt of the things those outside Pig's Haven had; fresh smelling air, a store down the street rather than the next town over, medicines, and all the marvels of technology. The boy dreamt of an auto-stallion's iron hooves stamping on the cobblestone road as a man in a modified carriage sold sweets and candies. He envied those outside the pig farming town, where people where clean and everything seemed enchanted.
Another fit of coughing was heard as Wodean walked in to his home, a squalid hovel where it seemed the only things that wanted to be there were the pigs and the pests. He brought the kindling and sparse wood in to the stone box they called a fire place, igniting it with a red crystal and a snap of his wrist. His father, Owain, was resting on a mat made of cotton covered in a blanket of canvas, his head resting upon a sack with straw stuffed inside; the only ones in the house, unfortunately. It wasn’t due to greed, however. Owain had contracted a rather vile disease, an infection that would eat him from the inside out.
Wodean gave his father a bowl of pork stew, feeding it to him with a wooden ladle. Since he was ten, the boy had to care for his father when the sickness overtook him. With that, he also had to tend to the pigs in the stead of his father. A lot of mud, slop, and… unmentionable other mucks have all but stained his once deep blue shirt an earthy brown and the stench followed young Wodean like a spectre follows a cursed man.
The boy lifted the ladle full of pork bits and thick, gravy-like broth to his father’s lips. The old man ate from the ladle slowly.
“Thank you, Wodean,” said Owain, swallowing the food and taking a swig from a flask of water.