The roar hit again, louder this time. My stomach dropped like I'd jumped from a ledge, and every nerve in me screamed freeze. Not run. Not yet. I needed to know what I was dealing with. Step one: assess.
I crept to a crack in the wall and peered through. My heart didn't slow. At the bend of a distant river, a herd was drinking. Huge. Enormous. Each one looked like it could crush a house with a flick of its leg. I counted—thirty? Forty? I lost track after ten. The bigger ones weren't moving aggressively. Just… existing. Lazy, massive bodies, like some absurd sketch of a natural world gone wild.
Good. They were far. But wind… wind was everything. I scooped a handful of dry dust from the floor and let it float out. Drifted straight toward them. Advantage: me. But one wrong step outside and they'd smell me instantly. My heart thudded a little faster, but my hands were calm. Patience. Observation. Analysis.
Door closed. Step two: inventory. I moved carefully, trying not to stir dust or loose floorboards too loudly.
First thing I noticed: sacks of charcoal. Black lumps, dry, dense—good fuel for a fire. Next, rotten wood—mostly useless, but I could strip the inside for kindling if I needed. Then a broad metal pot, coated with soot and smelling sharply of ethanol. Crude furnace fuel. Not for drinking. I didn't taste it. Didn't need to. Context gave it away: workshop, fire, not fun.
Tools were scattered like someone had left in a hurry—or maybe decades ago. Rusted tongs, broken bellows patched with scraps of leather, a half-melted crucible, an anvil pocked with old hammer marks. Most were useless, but some bronze and copper pieces were intact. Powder in sacks: oxidized copper. I ran a finger through it. Gritty, metallic smell, green streaks of verdigris. Used for smelting. Smart old-smith technique: grind ore, smelt in charcoal, coax metal from rock.
One chunk caught my eye. Dark, almost gunmetal. Fractured oddly. I tapped it on stone—sparks. Iron? Maybe. Different world, same rules. Sparks = oxidation potential = workable. Mental note: useful later.
Then the sword. Hung carelessly on a peg. I lifted it. Balance: awful. Hilt too light, blade too brittle. Snap. It broke like twigs. Edge chipped. Hilt cracked. Clattered to the floor, missing my foot by inches. Heart skipped. Close call. I froze. Analyzing: useless as a weapon, but its existence told me someone had once defended themselves here. Maybe even survived a fight.
Knee hit something under the fallen sword. Loose plank. Pried it up. Dagger. Small, intact, surprisingly solid. Handle dark wood, smooth, worn by hand. Blade short but thick. Weight distribution: perfect for quick jabs, easy to maneuver, wouldn't throw my wrist off balance. Blade weight vs handle: even. Hand grip: deep enough for control, not too thick to impede flexibility. Could pierce flesh or light armor. Material: iron or bronze? Hard to tell, but dense, responsive under pressure. Practical. Survival-worthy.
Under the dagger: bundle of charcoal tablets, tied with twine. Coins in a small cloth sack. I shook it gently. Metallic clink. Worn flat. Trade currency. Civilization nearby. Not immediately useful, but options in future.
Then, clothes. Rough shirt and patched trousers. First thought: Are they safe?
Step one: check for insects. No movement. No webs. No larvae. Step two: rot or moisture? Touch: dry. No damp patches. Age? Structure looked old, but somehow preserved. Probability: any virus or bacteria long dead. Step three: feel for hidden hazards. Pins? Needles? Sharp flakes in seams? Nothing. Step four: plan for washing anyway. River nearby, herd might move later. Safe for cleaning, safe for drinking. No point risking skin irritation, fungal infection, or worse. Logical: wear after wash. Not before.
I ran through mental inventory again: dagger strapped to belt, coins tucked away, charcoal stacked near hearth. Tools categorized: some for immediate use, some for later study. Clothes: wash first. Water: river. River distance: about a hundred meters, clear line of sight, herd still drinking. Wind direction: not toward me yet. Advantage maintained.
Then I sat. Back against cold stone. Dagger in hand. Eyes on the door. Mind racing. Analysis, hypotheses, contingency plans. Fire first: forge needs bellows, crucible repair, oxygen flow, proper ignition sequence. Metal second: test ore, copper powder, alloy possibilities. Clothing third: river wash, personal protection, camouflage scent. Water fourth: drinking, cleaning, assessing herd movement. Observation everywhere: sounds, smells, wind, creatures, light levels.
Patience. Observation. Logical step sequencing. Survival, yes. But curiosity, too. Every touch, smell, sound, crack of timber, leaf rustle, spark from stone—data. All of it useful. All of it knowledge.
And somewhere deep inside, a thrill. This world was raw. Untouched. Every problem, every inefficiency, every tiny hazard: mine to solve. Could I rebuild? Could I improve? Could I survive long enough to test my ideas? Hell yes.
Tomorrow, I would start with the bellows. Fix the forge. Ignite fire. Test metals. Understand the world. And maybe, just maybe, one day, bend it to my will.
For now: watch, wait, learn.