They’d drug him from the camp in a cloth sack, a day’s ride by horse, and dropped him into a shallow muddy stream. They left him with nothing, save for the soaked, muddy sack, which he had to free himself from. He emerged, somehow, wearing nothing but blood and bruises. He was almost certain that two of his ribs were fractured.
Nothing wasn’t completely accurate; he still had the little idol. He was surprised to still be holding the thing. There was no doubt that he’d loss consciousness several times during the journey from the camp to this spot. He had no idea where he was, but it was bizarrely comforting to still be holding that strange little idol.
The air was cold. He was wet, shivering. With a rock, he punched holes into the sack so he could wear it as a garment.
He was standing in a lightly forested place, moss and rocks and soft earth under foot. It wouldn’t be easy, with all this dampness, but he began collecting materials to start a fire.
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