I woke to the unmistakable sound of impending sogginess: fat drops pattering on oak bark overhead. The bigger sun still hid behind the eastern ridge, but the sky had that steel‑blue pout that means rain is already negotiating terms. My oak hollow—bless its charred, creaky heart—had kept me alive so far, yet one look at the widening puddle near the entrance told me our co‑tenancy agreement was about to expire.
My shoulder muttered a dull protest as I stretched, but the silver‑vein lavender salve had done its job: no fever, no angry red halo, just a stiff ache and a mosaic of scabs. Good enough. I rolled the moon‑hare pelts, stuffed notebook and flint knife into my bark satchel, and stepped into the dripping morning with a mission: find, upgrade, thrive.
Luck—or maybe the forest's quirky sense of humour—handed me a solution within minutes. Following a game trail south, I stumbled into a shallow gully where two sandstone boulders leaned against each other like drunken giants frozen mid‑hug. Between them yawned a triangular alcove, floor dry as sarcasm and only slightly smaller than a Perth studio flat.
I circled, testing surfaces for stability. The stones were cool, dense, and etched with ancient grooves that might've been claw marks or just eons of rain. Either way, they weren't going anywhere. Sunlight filtered through the juuuust‑wide‑enough gap at the top, painting the interior gold. I felt my grin widen. "Congratulations, Ian," I told the stones, "you're hired as property managers."
I mapped shadow angles with a stick‑and‑pebble clock, marking where the twin suns would shine or leave me freezing. Entrance faced east‑south‑east—good for morning warmth, meh for prevailing winds. Solution: build a hide curtain and a rib cage of saplings to block drafts.
Felling saplings with a flint knife is equal parts patience and profanity. I chose half a dozen finger‑thick trunks, scored a ring around each base, and levered until fibres sighed apart. Vines—still springy from yesterday's rain—became rope once braided. I lashed ribs across the boulder mouths, tightening each knot with a sailor's determination and zero nautical experience.
By midday the frame looked like an oversized basket waiting for a picnic. My shoulder ached, but the dull warmth of mana tingled each time my fingers brushed the lashing—like the forest whispering, Yes, build. I filed that feeling under "investigate later" and reached for the boar hide.
The pelt was heavier than guilt and twice as prickly, still dotted with stubby thorn bases I hadn't shaved smooth. I draped it over the entrance and punched tiny holes with the knife tip, threading vine cord through to secure edges against flapping. When the clouds finally loosed their rain, fat drops slid off the hide and spattered harmlessly onto moss. Success tasted like petrichor and smugness.
Gap above the hide needed waterproofing. I layered bracken fronds—broad, waxy, excellent thatch—in overlapping rows from the rib apex up to the stone lip. Soon the whole facade resembled a wild boar wearing a fancy green shawl. Fashion points: debatable. Insulation rating: stellar.
While adjusting the final tie, a ripple of heat pulsed from the hide into my palm. Not temperature—something deeper, resonant, like distant bass you feel before you hear. The vines tightened of their own accord, creaking as fibres shrank. For a breath the bracken edges shimmered silver, then stilled. I exhaled a shaky laugh. "Either you approve of interior design, or I've just cast my first accidental spell." Notebook entry incoming.
Rain intensified, drumming the stone roof as I ducked inside. The air held a cool hush, broken only by distant jackal yips jealous of my real estate upgrade. I relit the travel ember, fed it twigs until flames licked a new hearth pit ringed with flint chips. Warmth filled the alcove and—miracle—stayed. No icy draft snatched it away. The hide swelled slightly, releasing a nutty musk of cured fat and cedar smoke.
I laid moon‑hare pelts on the floor, leaned against smooth sandstone, and let muscles unwind. Shoulder twinged but didn't spike. Wind howled outside; inside, the fire purred. Luxury, alien‑edition.
Evening glow seeped through the bracken filter, turning the interior into a green‑gold grotto. I opened the bark journal:
Split‑Stone Shelter—Day Whatever:
Structure: natural boulder arch, sapling ribs, boar hide curtain, bracken thatch.
Weatherproof: preliminary verdict—rainproof, wind‑resistant.
Mana reaction: hide + vines resonated, knots self‑tightened. Hypothesis: materials retain echo of the creature's elemental affinity? Note: boar had thorn armouring—earth element? Explore.
Next tasks: • Carve tusk needles; start real clothing. • Build water filter trough from split cedar and charcoal. • Map twin sun shadows hourly from shelter entrance.
I closed the notebook, satisfied. Outside, rain softened to drizzle, and the forest exhaled petrichor like gratitude.
Fire settled into ember glow. I propped the boar‑hide curtain open a fraction, just enough to watch twin moons rise—one peach, one blue—casting criss‑cross shadows over the clearing. For once, those shadows didn't look like teeth; they looked like crossed fingers, promising luck.
"Home sweet Split‑Stone," I whispered, and the hide rustled as if agreeing. I curled under pelts, the ache in my shoulder fading beneath lavender's lingering chill and the steady hum of a shelter built by stubbornness, stone, and maybe a dash of magic.
Sleep came easy, rain singing counterpoint to embers. Tomorrow I'd sew, chart suns, and figure out why everything I touched wanted to glow. Tonight, I simply belonged.