Aven exited the chieftain’s hut, the cold night wind whipping away the Creator’s voices as he started on the path home. The golem test began in the evening, the color of the sky just beginning to turn a burnt orange, and now the black and blue sky was dotted with stars and dancing fire-bugs. While Aven often stared at them and wondered how it felt to be so surrounded in a sky so full, he had to stop his musings and step out of the path of a wandering golem as it made its way down the street.
Even at night, when their creators were resting, golems continued to fulfill their orders. The path he walked was lined by tents on either side, and one had a section that was leaning down. A motionless golem held the tentpole aloft, sparing not a glance as Aven passed by, continuing its silent duty. More yet hauled bags of grain, mounds of stone and wood from one location to the next, and a one-armed golem stood at attention next to a stone-brick well, ready and willing to draw the next pale of water.
“How can Creator Fernon say they are not alive, when witnessing this?” Aven huffed. “Though the stars may be shining instead of the sun, and they require no rest like our flesh-covered selves, they still take one step after the other. They complete one task before heading on to the next, and moving forward like every being must.” Aven held his hand aloft, admiring it in the moonlight. “Why should it matter if magic flows through their veins than blood? If the world runs on magic, then are not we the unnatural creature?”
The golems continued their work, giving him no answer, and so he made it back to his home. His parents were asleep, always early to bed as they needed to be up early crafting arrow fletchings and re-strapping bows. They constantly complained that golems were unfit to do their task, but wanted Aven to study them anyway to see if they could make one that did. After his first failure, they stopped coming at all.
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Most Nepol tents were a one-room affair, the central pole supporting the multi-colored canvas above their head limiting their options. So, curtains of green were traditionally hung to separate the living quarters of each resident, extending from the central pole and splitting the inside up into triangle-shaped compartments that could be expanded or closed off based on preference and time of day. Aven pushed the one to the left of the entrance aside which led to his space. Within the triangular space, to his left lay his bed roll. It was nothing more than a fabric sack filled with wool to soften the hard ground, complete with a light blanket that was more than warm enough for every season except winter. To the right, towards the center of the family tent, stood Aven’s trunk that was currently closed. It doubled as both storage space and a desk, where he either studied his golemancy books or worked on his chores with some semblance of peace.
Aven ignored the bag of arrowheads and shafts his parents had left him, haphazardly spilling out on top of the trunk, and crumpled down on top of his bed. The elation of having finally created a golem never left his mind, but it was pushed to the back with thoughts of that he would not be able to keep it, of what it even meant for a golem to come to life, and why people never thought they were the weird ones instead of the constructs they created.
He only realized he had fallen asleep when the quiet of the tent was disturbed by his parent's arguing.