Qrono Island
The Middle Waters
He woke to the chirping of birds out in the orchard, much like every morning. He lay still, absorbing all the sounds and smells, earthy to sweet to downright pungent, that wafted to him through his open window. He thanked both Mother Gaia and the Lord for another opportunity to do their work for one more day. Also, he gave thanks for the continued use of his ears and nose, aware that nothing could be taken for granted.
Slowly, he shifted to the edge of the bed. Not because it was large, but because his frail frame was not able to swing itself up and then down in one motion anymore. He gingerly let his feet plummet from the edge, to grip the coarse rug beneath. A plush rug would be much too hedonistic in pleasure to someone such as himself, that must set an example for the whole order.
He shuffled to the bed stand table where one of the postulants had already dumped the old water, and filled his ceramic grooming bowl with fresh water at some point while he slumbered in the last hours of the early morning. He began to scrub with the rough hand towel, which he had first slicked with the soap bar, then dipped in the bowl. He would then use the wood comb to capture the stray hairs that still remained on his head.
Eventually, his morning routine was complete as he had been helped with his undergarments by the younglings, and then he finally donned the robe fitting his station, with vestments - Abbot of the Order of Qrono, The Keepers of The Clock that ran the World.
Again, this was done with aid by the young postulants.
He moved with the help of a very jagged cane and the two young assigned postulants, from his quarters down the long hallway to the Refectory, greeting the other younger postulants and monks who passed him with a simple nod as they uttered wishes of a peaceful morning to him.
Abbot, or Brother Shneap, was a mystery to the rest of the brothers, who had found their way to the Qrono Order from all over Teremara and beyond, through the decades. No one was certain of his ethnicity and nation of origin, although hints of brown leathery skin gave some indication...or did they? Even the most northern Nordic men of Northern Tavlyria could give off such a sheen, but so could those in the most southeastern reaches of Madurin or Tavlyria.
It didn’t matter so much where he hailed from, as the Abbot, Brother Shneap was beloved by all the friars, and by adoring faithful off the Island, as well. Shneap didn’t proselytize, but he still brought in a large amount of funding to the Island from the world, just from his simple existence, documented by a multitude of Teremaran media organizations that visited from time to time to get a “feel good” story. Most often, they traveled in from Skartok, Glisandia, Reino do Brazil, and San Rosito, the closest, and most religious nations in Teremara, but the media networks weren’t limited to those nations.
Shneap had wobbled his way to the head of the table in the Refectory, acknowledging the greetings of all the monks along the way. He sat, again with a little assistance, and began to raise his mug of tea, with just another small helping hand scooping in underneath as the large ceramic vessel teetered for too long in the air and began to tilt, threatening to dump all over the table in front of him…
“Erm…*hack*...*mumbling*...” Shneap looked around at everyone as if he had just woken up, then at his slipping hand and the mug. “Oh blessed be The Lerd!”
