Light shone into Dakota’s eyes. He raised his hand to block it but stopped as pain seared through his shoulder and back. Whimpering, he rolled onto his side where it hurt less. The agony had dampened since last night. Instead of a crashing symphony, it was more like a thudding base. Waves of heat and pain rolling through him to some unheard rhythm. He tried breathing through his nose to calm himself but found it completely plugged. Probing gently, his fingers came away with dried blood. He must have busted it on his knee when he fell.

Speaking of the fall, Dakota tried rolling his ankles. The right worked, mostly, but his left felt stiff and tender. This was, of course, ignoring the terrible burns covering his legs and back. The worst parts had blistered, liquid oozing from burst skin bubbles. Dakota shuddered to think what it would take to get anything higher than [Minor Pain Tolerance]. As it was, the pain was bad but not debilitating.

Dakota gingerly sat up inspecting himself more thoroughly. His shirt was ruined, the back burned through in multiple places and covered in blood. His pants had fared better, the thicker material standing up to the flames but was still burned through in spots, especially the bottom cuffs. They were also covered in blood.

Slowly, Dakota rose to his feet, using the well as a brace. He drew up a bucket, taking a drink before pouring it over the worst of his burns. Tears sprung to his eyes as the water washed over him, bringing pain and relief in equal doses.

Gazing around the farm, Dakota felt something was missing. The barn. It was nothing more than a smouldering heap of ashes.

Dakota’s heart broke at the sight. He knew it was only a structure but it had become a central part of his life here. He had already begun dreaming about how he was going to use the space. Now it was gone. And for what reason.

“I will kill those creatures.”

Dakota’s heart burned. He hadn’t asked for trouble, only defending himself when he had to. But the goblins insisted on violence. He knew it was a choice for them. He had seen it in their eyes when they surrounded him. They wanted it, they craved it. Well, Dakota was done playing on the defensive…very soon.

Legs on fire, Dakota hobbled back to the house. The one flowering rose among the thicket was the garden. It had survived the carnage of last night. He wouldn’t be able to tend it closely but Dakota thought it would do okay. Most of the plants were fully established and shouldn’t have too much issue competing with the weeds.

He blessed his past self for sticking through with the clearing and planting. Dakota couldn’t imagine berries being his only food source for the next weeks.

~ THREE DAYS LATER

One thing no one ever told you about recovering was how boring it was. Dakota sat on the deck, twiddling his thumbs. What he would do to have someone to talk to. The silence was deafening.

Limping into the yard, Dakota looked at the garden. It was the same as the last nine times he had checked.

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The sun meandered above, light blazing without a cloud in the sky to shade him. This gave Dakota an idea. Shuffling to a field, he ripped up handfuls of wheat and grass. He managed three small armfuls before the pain became too great.

Exhaling, Dakota slumped into his deck chair. It was hard being reduced like this. Chained to the house. He knew he could have it worse, he could be dead, but he almost thought he would rather be dead than caged.

Pulling over a bundle of grass and wheat he sorted through them, putting grass on one side and wheat on the other. Once he had sifted through everything, Dakota weaved the wheat. He didn’t really know what he was doing but he knew he had time to figure it out.

A couple of hours later, Dakota had a straw hat…or a placemat, depending on how you looked at it. He had trouble bending the wheat up to create the part that sat on his head. Laying version one aside, he started again.

The sun had sunk low, leaving only a memory of the day’s light behind when Dakota finally unhunched from his work.

“That late already?”

Dusting himself off, he made his way to the steps, pushing aside versions three, five and nine. Version twelve perched on his head. It was the best yet, although with plenty of room for improvement. He took a deep draft from the well. His stomach gurgled, unhappy with the lack of food.

“I shall name you Frederick, my gurgly friend.”

Dakota patted his stomach, Fred was always such a downer. He was also a glutton, constantly whining about not having enough food. Good thing Dakota was a thoughtful and enabling friend.

Sticking his hand in his pocket, Dakota pulled out a handful of berries. Fred wheezed, resigned to his fate.

“I agree bud, these would be a lot better if our poops weren’t so weird after eating them.”

Dakota was sick of sleeping on his stomach. Actually, he was sick of sleeping on the floor but the stomach part didn’t help things.

It had been five days since the barn burning and his back was still too tender to sleep on. He supposed that was normal with burns, especially as serious as his but he couldn’t help feeling impatient. He was in a world with crazy magical skill things. Couldn’t he get a skill for instantly healing wounds or something? Was that really more difficult than breaking the laws of physics with a skill like [Minor Mundane Repair].

That being said, he was healing fast. The blisters had scabbed over and the overall pain had drastically decreased, to the point where he could walk around and weed without too much issue.

One benefit of his enforced R&R was the straw hat (wheat hat?) riding his dome. Version twenty-three turned out to be the winner. The time spent weaving had given him some ideas. Especially in regard to his sleeping arrangements.

Dakota dumped the final load of wheat and grass onto the kitchen floor. He knelt, carefully rolling into the spread-out pile. It was scratchy. And pokey.

“Hmm.”

Dakota plucked his hat off, twirling it in on his finger. He stopped twirling, examining the weave of the hat.

“That might work.”

That night, Dakota slept on a woven mat of grass and wheat. It certainly wasn’t silk but it was better than the floor.

Working like this eased his heart. He hadn’t forgotten the goblins but the pit of rage inside of him cooled. Dakota knew he would need to deal with them, probably kill them if he could but it was a matter of survival rather than revenge. Hate was poison, to the person (or thing) it was directed at but also to the bearer.