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Jul. 1st, 2009 03:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lastgunslingerThey walk a lot. Roland doesn't walk at the head. He thinks to himself without any malice that it's like traveling with a herd of locusts. Ghosts these people may be -- probably are; he doesn't feel the need to question what happened -- but they eat. They're hungry. And he has nothing for them.
"See what there is, mayhap," he suggests. "Is there one among you that knows plants?"
Two or three step forward. Roland nods. "Teach others, if you would. And know -- " He turns to the rest. " -- that whatever they find, it will not be enough. I'd not have you go into what we're about to do blind. And if thee'd prefer, leave us."
As it turns out, nobody leaves.
***
In the Court of the Crimson King -- or what remains of it -- they find many unpleasant things.
Roland surveys the take with visible misgiving. The take: two crates full of what appear to be rations fit for an army. Substitutes for meat. They're tightly sealed.
It is a different day, he thinks. Such a place as this -- it used to be poison, through and through. But there's more life as we're leaving than there was coming in, and the sunlight doesn't appear sickly any longer.
He opens a packet. Sniffs its contents. They don't smell off -- faintly dusty, like old soil, mayhap, but nothing wrong.
If I am wrong this is the end. Roland knows it without question.
Carefully, he touches a morsel to the tip of his tongue. No reaction. He eats some, and waits overnight. When the sun rises and he's still breathing, with no discomfort, he tells them it's probably safe, but they are running a risk, and they'd be better off waiting until they can catch animals -- itself a dim prospect, considering the size of the crowd.
Most people try the rations.
As it turns out, nobody dies.
***
They keep walking. Roland stays on drogue, and stays quiet as he can. It will not do to have them become too attached; not for what he's planning.
"See what there is, mayhap," he suggests. "Is there one among you that knows plants?"
Two or three step forward. Roland nods. "Teach others, if you would. And know -- " He turns to the rest. " -- that whatever they find, it will not be enough. I'd not have you go into what we're about to do blind. And if thee'd prefer, leave us."
As it turns out, nobody leaves.
In the Court of the Crimson King -- or what remains of it -- they find many unpleasant things.
Roland surveys the take with visible misgiving. The take: two crates full of what appear to be rations fit for an army. Substitutes for meat. They're tightly sealed.
It is a different day, he thinks. Such a place as this -- it used to be poison, through and through. But there's more life as we're leaving than there was coming in, and the sunlight doesn't appear sickly any longer.
He opens a packet. Sniffs its contents. They don't smell off -- faintly dusty, like old soil, mayhap, but nothing wrong.
If I am wrong this is the end. Roland knows it without question.
Carefully, he touches a morsel to the tip of his tongue. No reaction. He eats some, and waits overnight. When the sun rises and he's still breathing, with no discomfort, he tells them it's probably safe, but they are running a risk, and they'd be better off waiting until they can catch animals -- itself a dim prospect, considering the size of the crowd.
Most people try the rations.
As it turns out, nobody dies.
They keep walking. Roland stays on drogue, and stays quiet as he can. It will not do to have them become too attached; not for what he's planning.
