There was a track running from the village, medicinal grasses grew on both sides of it. Saralin dragged the little stray through the dust on this path, he was bound up in vines. She carried the sack of glass over her left shoulder. Sweat could be seen on her fasce, as she did her best not to breath strainfully. That would be unbecoming.

Twenty villagers moved around the beast at entrance of the village. They'd been there for a while, now. She saw that they had taken the creature's most succulent and vulnerable pieces, and done so quickly. These villagers were adept hunters, living out here, they knew how to handle dismantlement of game.

One stood off to the side, gestured, while shouting instructions, he was, of course, their leader. His clothing denoted his importance to this group. While his clothing wasn't anything special, in general--he would look like a beggar in the capital-- they were at least whole. The others, in the village, wore patched, and torn clothing. He walked over to her.

"Good day, your Highness."  He smiled, showing that he also possessed more teeth then the others.

"We're taking as much to salt as we can."

"You don't have to. The meat would last, anyway."

"You said that, but out here?" He shook his head; she knew what he meant. "We'll have to be careful. We'll salt it to be safe, your Highness."

She waved him away, told him not to touch the creatures glans, and organs that she needed. He nodded, and didn't ask to take her load, or what was the demon shaped figure she dragged , or why it screamed. A good leader after all.

The house had a few steps that she dragged him over. She looked back and saw the binds flexing. She raised an eyebrow at that. He was strong for his age.

She tossed him in first. He crashed against the wall on the far end of the cabin. She placed her wares down, gently, onto the table.

..................................

"Old..." he held his manners, "lady! What the hell was that for!?"

She said something, pointed to a  chair, to a walking stick leaning against the wall, right besides the entrance . He recognised the walking stick, got the message, and sat down. His back prickled a little and he scowled at the old woman.

She tapped the wares, seemingly coming up with a way to communicate.

He wanted to stick up a middle finger, but decided against it, she might atually understand him. He rubbed his back, she smiled. She was so old, but he saw all of her teeth were intact; she wore dentures, he thought. 

She held the space between her brows, pointed to the sack of pots, and rubbed her shoulders.

"So, what you want is a carrier?" He pointed to himself, and then to the bags on the table. 

"Yes." She nodded.

The room was small, but a door was opened to his right, which lead into a bed room. Besides the exit, this would be the only other door within the cabin. Right now, she blocked his way out of here.

"Okay," He nodded back.

 She pointed to the pots and pans . They looked like too much, but, he rememberd the walking stick, He hefted the bag easier then he would have expected. Then they trecked back to the river.

He washed them all besides it. She'd left him there with a cloth and with some type of bushes, that would sud whenever he crushed their leafs.

She came back, carrying clothing without any holes. 

He washed himself in the river after work and wore them. By this time the sun had shown up. Still tepid, more like a candle than a light bulb. 

The old woman walked in the the front on their way back; he saw that she wore shoes. A rough type, that wrapped aound the whole of her feet, more a leather swaddle then footware. He had walked on leafs, on pines and needles, then grass; he could use some foam, or leather. Damian sighed, he'd even settle for socks at this point.