Wynn balanced on the stone in the river. He imagined the form of the trout, lying in the shade of the bank. Imagining a tiny whirlpool in his mind, Wynn willed the water to fence in his soon-to-be supper. There was a thread of connection. It had always been there, as long as he could remember. He gently tried to work his will against that thread, causing it to move. As that thread felt his will, the fish seemed to be caught in a small current.

"You're never going to catch one that way," the bushes suddenly called out.

Surprised, Wynn felt the whirlpool pictured in his mind dissipate. All that focus. Poof! Gone with the current. The cost of controlling the flow of water was not great, but it was great enough to disrupt Wynns's balance causing him to tumble into the stream. The cold water only assisted in dousing his mood even further. He was not the greatest at his control over water.

Gathering himself up onto the river bank Wynn grumbled. "You are not exactly making this any better." He eyed the tree line. Somewhere among the blackberry brambles a wispy figure was hiding. A wood sprite was rarely ever easy to see. This one seemed to like to pester him almost exclusively. Most sprites avoided humans. Most probably due to humans living only a fraction of the time that sprites do. This makes the fleeting lives of a human mostly boring. Except this sprite seemed to think that he needed special attention.

Glancing at the fading light, Wynn decided that it was about time to head back to his tent. The trout at least had a more fortunate day. Small river stones crunched underfoot as he made his way upstream. His soaking boots were collecting a layer of sand that made each step a bit heavier. Perhaps he was just dreading his return to camp.

He could see the smoke of the cook's fire rising above the tree line. Contributing to the larder was generally expected of most of the camp. Most could trap. Some could hunt. That trout would have eased some of the frowns around the fire. He had been collecting a lot more of those lately.

Shrinking a bit as he walked through camp he hastily made his way to his tent. He had placed it a bit off of the main thoroughfare in the hopes of maintaining a bit of space.

"Nothing for the pot today boy?"

Wynn felt his blood boil a bit as he turned towards the cookfire. He was a number of seasons past being considered a man, yet some have deemed him an exception. It shouldn't bother him as much as it did, but it was a common greeting towards him shared by many members of the camp. Karla was standing there almost defensively by the cookfire, the heart of the camp. This was her domain.

Karla was a burly oak of a woman. She towered over a good number of men in camp and it was no rumor that she could fell trees just as well. Wynn was a bit terrified of her. Most men in the camp were. This was her livelihood and she defended it. It was not common for women to attend let alone manage their own wood camps. She owned the tents, the axes, and a good number of the mules that hauled lumber to the river edge. Most important of all, at least to most camp members, she owned the cook wagon and the giant cast iron pot.

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"Are you daft boy?" Karla asked as she approached.

"I did not have much luck with the fishing today," Wynn quietly offered.

Karla sighed, "You know the deal."

Proffering five irons, Wynn spoke, "I remember the deal."

Karla shrugged as she turned back to the center of the camp. She seemed a bit disappointed but this was a ritual she was proficient in. You did not run a wood camp well if you couldn't ask your workers what they owe you.

Wynn was not offended by her direct and quick negotiation. Karla kept a professional distance and rarely shared drinks or much personal discussion with her work crew. There had only been a few times that Wynn had noticed some form of friendship between her and a woodcutter. These were usually woodsmen who had been on her crew either many times or for many years.

Wynn resumed his march back to his tent, though the missing irons did not make him feel much lighter. There was nothing unfair about the contract he had with Karla. This was not his livelihood and he was simply a summer worker. He was expected to pay for the use of the tools and tent. If he helped keep the camp provisions stocked, Karla gave him a discount of three irons.

He entered his tent and threw his weary body onto his cot. This was not where he had expected to be this summer. At his age, it was time for him to resonate with one of the Promises. His grasp over water was really just a whisper of power. Water was part of life. Since he was living, he had a trace connection as his birthright.

Each spring after twenty years of age, men and women were allowed to explore the different Orders. Each order made up the whole of Fenn. Each Order after each of the Promises, each ran their own town. Some were larger than others but each attracted magic users related to the specific Order. Since Wynn was born in the late summer, he still had a few months before he would make his Journey.

The dinner bell rang. As uncomfortable as it was dealing with other members of the wood camp, the rich smell of dinner in the big pot was enticing enough to get Wynn out of his cot. It was time to receive work orders for the next day as well as supper. This was usually a cheerful time around camp. The long day of work made the stumps and logs arranged around the fire enticing to sit on. A cask of ale was tapped fueling more of the evening revelry.

Wynn made his way to the line to grab a bowl of stew. The summer evenings were still cool enough to make steam rise from the bowl. Karla might be a tough camp boss, but Wynn figured it might be worth it for the meals alone. At the end of the table there was a piece of slate with assignments chalked onto it. The wood frame of the slate was a bit greasy and worn from years of being the center of communication.

"Wynn and Arne, River," Wynn read.

This was the assignment that he dreaded. Others might have been absolutely thrilled at this assignment. It meant direct work and experience in the Promise of Gulf. Logs were sent downstream to the mill by floating them down the river. Being able to control water and resonate with its essence was crucial to preventing jams. Arne was one of the best. He would be a great master to learn from. While the lessons are more focused on the industry of logging, much of the focus and control learned could be directed into other livelihoods.

Wynn quickly finished his meal and made his way to his tent. He wanted to avoid Arne until tomorrow at least. He was not an ill-tempered man but spending a few days with Wynn's attempts at driving logs had been enough to even wear his patience a bit thin.

Wynn arrived at his tent and his cot had never seemed more inviting. He closed his eyes and drifted off to the gentle summer evening breeze.