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having procured it outside of legal regimes from the 1796 submerged forest, you examine closely now with your right finger the chalk-villi bandaged across the wall, turning slowly to wintry templates across the landing. its texture, which pinches your fingers as it falls away, reminds you of deep-fried and stale food. since an immemorial date, it's been petrified as an impasto sculpture enveloping an unlit staircase at the far corner of the pinkish room.

one of the persistent burrs under your saddle is the small pieces of gravel trapped against the palm of your foot. that you managed at least to sprawl towards this settlement while wearing in only a thick pair of rough-hewn socks was fairly untemperamental of you, but as soon as the larger qualms are settled even small discomforts are magnified in your mind with the physical illusion of the former. there's a collection of your un-sleek paraphernalia that your created yourself. you take off the socks to wash later in the river basin. in the corner there's the faintest glow created by a heated spool of metal surrounded by a chimney of adobe bricks draped in powder and several hundred short, fibrous cloths collectively a bedsheet which is where you have slept for a short lifetime. most of the dusty tempera palettes that you've recently used have all desaturated to white as over time they caught the thick layer of dust from burning bundles of sticks in your living quarters.

ash-cakes are a specialty among bedouins like yourself. you enjoy dining on ash-cakes with meat from the blue swimming crab from a nearby reserve if you have time to fish, although your precedent to crab hunting is to avoid it for its diminishing effect. you recently grew some brown mushrooms that were quite delicious on their own, and altogether decide to prepare this for dinner in your hovel. you've waited a long time for dinner and have been burning into the midnight oil over the course of several days, starting to grow pale and tired before you start cooking. full on several helpings of the mushrooms and ash-cakes: you prepare for a long rest.

waking up and witnessing a large grey storm cloud crackling in the lower stratosphere as you get outside is a harrowing experience for you. you have a tin pale full of clothes mixed with the rich peat and clay of the hills. arctic seals on the hunt circulate the basin, likely brought here terrorized by the seaside northern public settlement to the north. a storm's brewing and much of your insulation is leeched by the wind, but you have enough articulation with your hessian gloves to scrub the clothes with a pad of wire wool. after separating the large dirt cakes, you underpin them on a shallow charcoal bed and create slow-burning embers to bind the incense. you witness a small, hobbling cattle-rancher launching over one of the sharpest inclines on the horizon to the east.

*[[Acinciturk2211|greet the cattle-rancher]]
*[[Acinciturk2212|go back inside]]
*[[Acinciturk2213|go exploring some more]]

*[[Acinciturk22|Back]]

[[Category:Acinciturk|*]]