All our characters were youthful at some time or another!
Write about it!
In this thread, take as few, or many of your characters as you like. Go to some significant point in their youth, and write a small bit on it. Use that to help indicate who they were, and how their life might have been at the time.
The only rule? Try to do it in no longer than roughly a page and a half for each character!
Go!
As a Child: Writing Project
Moderator: Guild Officer
Re: As a Child: Writing Project
Well, it's a damnsight longer than a page and a half, but here's the formative event of Beltar's teenage years:
http://feathermoon.net/log/index.php?topic=1569.0
http://feathermoon.net/log/index.php?topic=1569.0
Re: As a Child: Writing Project
I plan to have at least 3 ficlets (or just over ficlet lenght) up by the end of next week. It turns out I never finished the ones I had...sonovabitch
I drink to keep you pretty
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Re: As a Child: Writing Project
Story 1: Mostly Apocryphal? (and possibly unauthorized)
The Pig and Whistle was closed, but two stayed behind. Bricu nursed his tea while Ceil sipped at her bourbon. The two hadn't spoken since they got word from the man who brought them together--Uthas the Plaguefather.
After a few minutes of silence, Ceil spoke up. "Bricu, can you tell me how you met fa-Uthas?"
Bricu rolled a cigarette and gathered his thoughts.
"We met a wee bit o'er twenty years ago. He was the smallest, skinniest kid I ever met. Still is"
Ceil looked pained. "Was he beaten or hurt?"
"Bah, he was fine, just too bloody skinny. He was holdin' onta Makara-didja know Makara?-for dear life, wearin' a royal blue tunic three sizes too big for 'im."
Ceil nodded.
"She came with him." Bricu sighed and pulled a drag from his cigarette before pointing it at her. "They weren't related. None o'us were."
"The minute they walked in, Peter, an older kid, took a likin' ta that fancy shirt. That night, when they were finally separated, Peter went ta Uthas an told 'im ta hand over the shirt or she'd get a beatin'."
"So what did you do?"
"Like any good orphan, I watched."
"Bricu, that's horrible!"
Bricu finished his tea before answering her. "Yeh wanna tell me 'bout bein' an Orphan or yeh want me ta continue?"
"Please, go on." She said hesitantly.
"Peter was a giant, so I kept me distance. Uthas cried for a bit then gave up the shirt. He got away with only a black eye."
Bricu stubbed out his cigarette. "That night, we woke up ta Uthas on top o'Peter, punchin' him the face. Peter tried ta git 'im off, but Uthas was fierce. Eventually, Peter gave up, an' the new kids didn't have a damn thing ta fear."
Ceil nodded
"What happened to Peter?"
"He left fer the army a few weeks layer. We never talked again, but he always sent me letters from the front."
Bricu started gathering his things to leave while Ceil poured herself another bourbon. They were quiet until Ceil asked another question.
"You said you kept your distance, but it sounded like you talked with him. How did that work?"
Bricu stood up from the table.
"Boss, who do yeh think encouraged Peter ta get the shirt."
Shocked at his answer, she said her goodbyes after he walked out.
The Pig and Whistle was closed, but two stayed behind. Bricu nursed his tea while Ceil sipped at her bourbon. The two hadn't spoken since they got word from the man who brought them together--Uthas the Plaguefather.
After a few minutes of silence, Ceil spoke up. "Bricu, can you tell me how you met fa-Uthas?"
Bricu rolled a cigarette and gathered his thoughts.
"We met a wee bit o'er twenty years ago. He was the smallest, skinniest kid I ever met. Still is"
Ceil looked pained. "Was he beaten or hurt?"
"Bah, he was fine, just too bloody skinny. He was holdin' onta Makara-didja know Makara?-for dear life, wearin' a royal blue tunic three sizes too big for 'im."
Ceil nodded.
"She came with him." Bricu sighed and pulled a drag from his cigarette before pointing it at her. "They weren't related. None o'us were."
"The minute they walked in, Peter, an older kid, took a likin' ta that fancy shirt. That night, when they were finally separated, Peter went ta Uthas an told 'im ta hand over the shirt or she'd get a beatin'."
"So what did you do?"
"Like any good orphan, I watched."
"Bricu, that's horrible!"
Bricu finished his tea before answering her. "Yeh wanna tell me 'bout bein' an Orphan or yeh want me ta continue?"
"Please, go on." She said hesitantly.
"Peter was a giant, so I kept me distance. Uthas cried for a bit then gave up the shirt. He got away with only a black eye."
Bricu stubbed out his cigarette. "That night, we woke up ta Uthas on top o'Peter, punchin' him the face. Peter tried ta git 'im off, but Uthas was fierce. Eventually, Peter gave up, an' the new kids didn't have a damn thing ta fear."
Ceil nodded
"What happened to Peter?"
"He left fer the army a few weeks layer. We never talked again, but he always sent me letters from the front."
Bricu started gathering his things to leave while Ceil poured herself another bourbon. They were quiet until Ceil asked another question.
"You said you kept your distance, but it sounded like you talked with him. How did that work?"
Bricu stood up from the table.
"Boss, who do yeh think encouraged Peter ta get the shirt."
Shocked at his answer, she said her goodbyes after he walked out.
I drink to keep you pretty
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Itanya_blade
- Posts: 638
- Joined: Thu Nov 13, 2008 4:08 pm
Re: As a Child: Writing Project
Damn you, woman!
I've been working on a mailing all day. Which means I have had hours and hours to think about stories for characters as children... I already had stories in the queue.
/wrists.
I've been working on a mailing all day. Which means I have had hours and hours to think about stories for characters as children... I already had stories in the queue.
/wrists.
Re: As a Child: Writing Project
**I think Aely is about 7 in this, maybe a little older**
Rain pounded the roof, but inside the tiny house were four people (and one large dog) in relative warmth considering the weather. The front room served as both kitchen and living room, and a tall, redheaded man snoozed in a hand carved chair in one corner by the fire, his little son sitting on the hearth playing with a toy.
Given the tranquility of the scene, the yelped protests were slightly out of place.
"Ow. Mumma, dinnae! Tha' hurts! OW"
In one of the two bedrooms, a freshly bathed little girl frumped on a stool in a slightly oversized nightgown, her green eyes filled with indignation that would've been serious if it wasn't quite so comical. Behind her, a pleasant looking dark-haired woman brandished a comb with practiced accuracy.
"Sit STILL, Fiffy. It won't hurt so if you dinna struggle."
The woman yanked the comb through another snarl, her long fingers unwinding yet another bit of sticker brambles from her daughter's birdsnest of hair.
"Did ye not comb it a'mornin' like I told ye?"
The mumbled response warranted another yanked knot.
"What'd ye do that got ye in alla this mess anyhow? That skirt's near ruined."
"Jus' climbin' trees wi' -OW- Bert. He dared me t' climb th' haunted elder tree - y'ken, th' one in th' churchyard!"
"Brother Olfric'll have ye ears for breakfast if he catches ye again, ye ken? An' that tree isnae haunted. Jus' older e'en than Brother Olfric."
The disgruntled "Aye, Mumma" that emerged from the damp mess of red curls held only a hint of defiance.
The woman sighed, deftly braiding that evening's project into a tight plait and securing it as best she could, knowing another night of combing was likely ahead of her the next day unless it kept raining. She didn't know how that child could look and act so much like her father, right down to that little stubborn edge in her voice.
Tripping once on her nightgown, the little girl scampered out into the front room and clambered over the dog and into her father's lap, waking him up and asking for a story.
He blinked at her sleepily, then smiled.
"A'righ', jus' a short'un thow. Lesse... I s'pose th' best stories all start wi' “Once upon a time” ayeh?"
Rain pounded the roof, but inside the tiny house were four people (and one large dog) in relative warmth considering the weather. The front room served as both kitchen and living room, and a tall, redheaded man snoozed in a hand carved chair in one corner by the fire, his little son sitting on the hearth playing with a toy.
Given the tranquility of the scene, the yelped protests were slightly out of place.
"Ow. Mumma, dinnae! Tha' hurts! OW"
In one of the two bedrooms, a freshly bathed little girl frumped on a stool in a slightly oversized nightgown, her green eyes filled with indignation that would've been serious if it wasn't quite so comical. Behind her, a pleasant looking dark-haired woman brandished a comb with practiced accuracy.
"Sit STILL, Fiffy. It won't hurt so if you dinna struggle."
The woman yanked the comb through another snarl, her long fingers unwinding yet another bit of sticker brambles from her daughter's birdsnest of hair.
"Did ye not comb it a'mornin' like I told ye?"
The mumbled response warranted another yanked knot.
"What'd ye do that got ye in alla this mess anyhow? That skirt's near ruined."
"Jus' climbin' trees wi' -OW- Bert. He dared me t' climb th' haunted elder tree - y'ken, th' one in th' churchyard!"
"Brother Olfric'll have ye ears for breakfast if he catches ye again, ye ken? An' that tree isnae haunted. Jus' older e'en than Brother Olfric."
The disgruntled "Aye, Mumma" that emerged from the damp mess of red curls held only a hint of defiance.
The woman sighed, deftly braiding that evening's project into a tight plait and securing it as best she could, knowing another night of combing was likely ahead of her the next day unless it kept raining. She didn't know how that child could look and act so much like her father, right down to that little stubborn edge in her voice.
Tripping once on her nightgown, the little girl scampered out into the front room and clambered over the dog and into her father's lap, waking him up and asking for a story.
He blinked at her sleepily, then smiled.
"A'righ', jus' a short'un thow. Lesse... I s'pose th' best stories all start wi' “Once upon a time” ayeh?"
[5.OOC] Beltar: Hammer of What The Fuck Were You Thinking
Re: As a Child: Writing Project
The fading evening light gleamed off of the only clean spot on the pothelm. Once, during the Second Orc War, it had glistened proudly. Its tarnished and dented state was a reflection of it's city - a dirty reminder of forgone glory.
On the roof, the two raggety figures clutched their clubs and creeped closer to the edge. "Do 'e ken us Bri?"
The larger figure rushed a finger to his lips. "Shhh ye git. Ye wanted ta hunt orcs, now ye gotta be quiet!" The larger boy turned his attention back to the helm and adjusted his club. "Now, ye see me lad, tha trick wi' orcs is they got right 'ard 'eads. Ye gotta get 'im low, in tha guts!" The smaller boy echoed "Yehhh, in tha guts!", punctuating his statement with the thrust of a fist.
"They say them orcs is so bloodthirsty though, tha e'en after ye stabs 'em, they'll keep comin' fer ya!" The dark skin of the younger boy's face crinkled in worry as Bricu's voice dropped low. "Soon . . .now . . . .soon . . . .NOW!"
Magtha shrieked as the large redhaired boy came crashing down past the awning of her stall waving a club. The smaller of the two waited a moment, watching carefully how Bricu leaped, and then jumped himself, gaining a safer landing in the process. Then, both clubs waving, the boys charged the tailoring dummy outside of the stall, the same one they'd placed an old pothelm on an hour before. "Die ye greenskin!" The tailor shrieked as the boys made a fine wreck of the ballgown on display, smashing it with their clubs. Then, laughing, they broke into a run and disappeared into the crowd, the screaming tailor close behind.
Half an hour later found them seated on the back of a wagon at Fitch's Inn, sipping water from a discarded ladel. Though one was dark skinned and the other light, under the dirt it was impossible to tell their heritage apart. "Do ye think we'll e'er see a real orc, Bri?" The younger boy spoke quietly, as was his habit. "Nar, nar. They're all locked up like. The army's got 'em all handled. 'n in a year or two I'm gonna join 'em. They ye won' 'ave ta worry no more." Bricu finished his sentence with a big slurp of water as he eyed one of the whores strut past.
"Bri . . do ye think tha's 'ow my parents died? Them orcs?" The smaller boy stared at his bare feet. Bricu set down the ladel and put his arm around the boy. "I dunno lad. Coulda been. They killed a lotta people in them days." The younger boy sniffled and rubbed at his nose. "Now, c'mon lad. Buck up. We'll run down ta tha' market 'n see if ol' Thaddius 's left any o' 'is shoes out ta swipe." Bricu twapped the small boy on the head and levered himself off the wagon.
Uthas wrinkled his nose and rubbed the tears from his face as he hopped down. "I hate wearing shoes."
On the roof, the two raggety figures clutched their clubs and creeped closer to the edge. "Do 'e ken us Bri?"
The larger figure rushed a finger to his lips. "Shhh ye git. Ye wanted ta hunt orcs, now ye gotta be quiet!" The larger boy turned his attention back to the helm and adjusted his club. "Now, ye see me lad, tha trick wi' orcs is they got right 'ard 'eads. Ye gotta get 'im low, in tha guts!" The smaller boy echoed "Yehhh, in tha guts!", punctuating his statement with the thrust of a fist.
"They say them orcs is so bloodthirsty though, tha e'en after ye stabs 'em, they'll keep comin' fer ya!" The dark skin of the younger boy's face crinkled in worry as Bricu's voice dropped low. "Soon . . .now . . . .soon . . . .NOW!"
Magtha shrieked as the large redhaired boy came crashing down past the awning of her stall waving a club. The smaller of the two waited a moment, watching carefully how Bricu leaped, and then jumped himself, gaining a safer landing in the process. Then, both clubs waving, the boys charged the tailoring dummy outside of the stall, the same one they'd placed an old pothelm on an hour before. "Die ye greenskin!" The tailor shrieked as the boys made a fine wreck of the ballgown on display, smashing it with their clubs. Then, laughing, they broke into a run and disappeared into the crowd, the screaming tailor close behind.
Half an hour later found them seated on the back of a wagon at Fitch's Inn, sipping water from a discarded ladel. Though one was dark skinned and the other light, under the dirt it was impossible to tell their heritage apart. "Do ye think we'll e'er see a real orc, Bri?" The younger boy spoke quietly, as was his habit. "Nar, nar. They're all locked up like. The army's got 'em all handled. 'n in a year or two I'm gonna join 'em. They ye won' 'ave ta worry no more." Bricu finished his sentence with a big slurp of water as he eyed one of the whores strut past.
"Bri . . do ye think tha's 'ow my parents died? Them orcs?" The smaller boy stared at his bare feet. Bricu set down the ladel and put his arm around the boy. "I dunno lad. Coulda been. They killed a lotta people in them days." The younger boy sniffled and rubbed at his nose. "Now, c'mon lad. Buck up. We'll run down ta tha' market 'n see if ol' Thaddius 's left any o' 'is shoes out ta swipe." Bricu twapped the small boy on the head and levered himself off the wagon.
Uthas wrinkled his nose and rubbed the tears from his face as he hopped down. "I hate wearing shoes."
A rhombus is the kind of rectangle a bitch would draw.
Indarra.
There was music, there was incense, there was a procession.
There was a chorus of feminine giggling.
The Leafwhisper girls sat in the front row, all of them dressed in matching white gowns to best compliment their priestess mother. Grizelle, Evanaya, and Illcilia - eldest child to youngest - attempted to maintain their composure as the attending acolyte’s headpiece dropped to the ground, rolling beneath their stone bench.
Grand ceremony? What grand ceremony. KICK.
Evanaya’s shoulders quaked as she launched the poor man’s crown away, watching it spin under another set of benches further back in the temple. He looked a bit frantic, now unable to see where his Pointy Hat had gone. Pointy Hats were important in high ritual, or so said their mother’s secretary Eldius. Pointy Hats marked the officials of Elune, and Pointy Hat People were meant to be treated with the utmost respect.
“Stop it!” Illcilia said to her twin, poking her in the rubs. “The Pointy Hats will get mad.”
“Ow. Cut it out. And he can’t get mad. He didn’t see me do it”
“Mother’s going to kill you. Look, there’s murder in her.”
And there was. Grand Priestess Dyandea Leafwhisper glared at her progeny, her hands lifted above her head in supplication to the great priestess Elune. Her smile remained serene, of course, because she was kaldorei and kaldorei priestesses had to be serene, but . ..
“She’s going to kill us,” Illi murmured.
No, not kill, but behave or you can leave.
The voice in their heads echoed like thunder, and the children immediately stiffened, knowing they’d crossed The Line. The only person that got more respect than the Pointy Hats was the Pointy Hat Leader who was, unfortunately, their mother - the very same female pounding words into their brains.
“Oh, we’re in trouble,” Grizelle groaned. “Evanaya, you are TELLING Mother you did it.”
“You’re going to rat me out?”
“No, I don’t have to. She knows.”
Evanaya, go get his crown and apologize. We will discuss this later.
“Not fair,” the middle child sulked, sticking her tongue out at Grizelle. Instead of just stepping down from her seat and politely moving through the audience to where she’d kicked Pointy Hat, she dropped onto her hands and knees, bumping into people and muttering apologies. Grizelle’s eyes widened and she began to giggle harder upon seeing the dust riddling her sister’s perfect frock.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Move your foot? I need that h . . . OW DON’T STEP ON ME.” There was an embarrassed chitter through the audience as Evanaya’s voice cut through the ritual, not quite interrupting it, but definitely making it skip a half of a heartbeat.
From behind her scrying bowl, Dyandea’s eyes narrowed.
Girls . . .
Grizelle began to gnaw on her fingernails. There were inelegant thuds as Evanaya retrieved the acolyte’s Pointy Hat from beneath the bench, and she stumbled up to him, handing it over like it was the most hateful thing she’d ever seen. He bowed and blessed her by pressing his fingers to her forehead, and her eyes crossed as she gave her thanks.
Illcilia waited til her twin was beside her again, and then her fingers were digging into the fleshy part of her stomach. “We’re all in trouble now,” she hissed, pinching hard. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Stop being such a cry baby.”
That’s it, all of you. Out.
Grizelle cringed. Eldius stood from his bench, prompted by some silent message Dyandea undoubtedly sent his way. He smiled at the audience and then he was motioning them towards the side exit of the temple. Most of the congregation was grinning, though a few had disapproving sneers. One lady in particular seemed disgusted by their behavior.
Grizelle waved at her. Eldius had to drag her outside by the back of her dress.
“Ladies, that wasn’t proper at all,” he said, stooping to brush Evanaya’s knees off. They were dirty from her adventure on the temple floor.
The girls clamored over themselves to apologize to him, and he shook his head, walking them through the gardens towards their house. “Your mother will be upset.”
“She’s always upset with us.”
I am not.
Grizelle yelped.
It was hard to be the daughter of a highly regarded priestess. It was harder still to never be free of her. There was a saying about eyes in the back of a head, but Dyandea was infinitely worse: she was the eyes in your very own head.
“Sorry Mom."
There was no answer.
"Uh oh, she's really mad."
It was going to be a long afternoon.
There was a chorus of feminine giggling.
The Leafwhisper girls sat in the front row, all of them dressed in matching white gowns to best compliment their priestess mother. Grizelle, Evanaya, and Illcilia - eldest child to youngest - attempted to maintain their composure as the attending acolyte’s headpiece dropped to the ground, rolling beneath their stone bench.
Grand ceremony? What grand ceremony. KICK.
Evanaya’s shoulders quaked as she launched the poor man’s crown away, watching it spin under another set of benches further back in the temple. He looked a bit frantic, now unable to see where his Pointy Hat had gone. Pointy Hats were important in high ritual, or so said their mother’s secretary Eldius. Pointy Hats marked the officials of Elune, and Pointy Hat People were meant to be treated with the utmost respect.
“Stop it!” Illcilia said to her twin, poking her in the rubs. “The Pointy Hats will get mad.”
“Ow. Cut it out. And he can’t get mad. He didn’t see me do it”
“Mother’s going to kill you. Look, there’s murder in her.”
And there was. Grand Priestess Dyandea Leafwhisper glared at her progeny, her hands lifted above her head in supplication to the great priestess Elune. Her smile remained serene, of course, because she was kaldorei and kaldorei priestesses had to be serene, but . ..
“She’s going to kill us,” Illi murmured.
No, not kill, but behave or you can leave.
The voice in their heads echoed like thunder, and the children immediately stiffened, knowing they’d crossed The Line. The only person that got more respect than the Pointy Hats was the Pointy Hat Leader who was, unfortunately, their mother - the very same female pounding words into their brains.
“Oh, we’re in trouble,” Grizelle groaned. “Evanaya, you are TELLING Mother you did it.”
“You’re going to rat me out?”
“No, I don’t have to. She knows.”
Evanaya, go get his crown and apologize. We will discuss this later.
“Not fair,” the middle child sulked, sticking her tongue out at Grizelle. Instead of just stepping down from her seat and politely moving through the audience to where she’d kicked Pointy Hat, she dropped onto her hands and knees, bumping into people and muttering apologies. Grizelle’s eyes widened and she began to giggle harder upon seeing the dust riddling her sister’s perfect frock.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Move your foot? I need that h . . . OW DON’T STEP ON ME.” There was an embarrassed chitter through the audience as Evanaya’s voice cut through the ritual, not quite interrupting it, but definitely making it skip a half of a heartbeat.
From behind her scrying bowl, Dyandea’s eyes narrowed.
Girls . . .
Grizelle began to gnaw on her fingernails. There were inelegant thuds as Evanaya retrieved the acolyte’s Pointy Hat from beneath the bench, and she stumbled up to him, handing it over like it was the most hateful thing she’d ever seen. He bowed and blessed her by pressing his fingers to her forehead, and her eyes crossed as she gave her thanks.
Illcilia waited til her twin was beside her again, and then her fingers were digging into the fleshy part of her stomach. “We’re all in trouble now,” she hissed, pinching hard. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Stop being such a cry baby.”
That’s it, all of you. Out.
Grizelle cringed. Eldius stood from his bench, prompted by some silent message Dyandea undoubtedly sent his way. He smiled at the audience and then he was motioning them towards the side exit of the temple. Most of the congregation was grinning, though a few had disapproving sneers. One lady in particular seemed disgusted by their behavior.
Grizelle waved at her. Eldius had to drag her outside by the back of her dress.
“Ladies, that wasn’t proper at all,” he said, stooping to brush Evanaya’s knees off. They were dirty from her adventure on the temple floor.
The girls clamored over themselves to apologize to him, and he shook his head, walking them through the gardens towards their house. “Your mother will be upset.”
“She’s always upset with us.”
I am not.
Grizelle yelped.
It was hard to be the daughter of a highly regarded priestess. It was harder still to never be free of her. There was a saying about eyes in the back of a head, but Dyandea was infinitely worse: she was the eyes in your very own head.
“Sorry Mom."
There was no answer.
"Uh oh, she's really mad."
It was going to be a long afternoon.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Tashyia.
“Lass, ye do it like tha’, no’ . . . nae, give it tae meh.”
Tashyia jerked the brightly colored sweater away from her mother’s clutches. Her needle jutted from the neck portion, where a small web of yarns had begun to knot. “Ma, yer just gonna do it fer meh an’ I’ll nae learn.”
“Ye stubborn ass. Just like yer Da, ye are.” The gray haired woman smiled. “Fine. Take yer needle an’ loop the yarn o’er it. Yer goin’ under. An’ pull it tight, ye ken?”
“Yeh just ‘ad to say tha’ in the first place.”
Tashyia’s tongue poked out of the side of her mouth as she did as her mother advised. Her small, adroit hands moved the yarns into place, and she recreated her last stitch, only this time, it wasn’t backwards and malformed. She squealed triumphantly, holding her sweater in front of her like a great prize. “Ah ha!”
“Ye did it! Nice job, Lass.”
The faint sound of a tin whistle drifted in through the door. All the windows were open in the thatched house, allowing the Arathi breeze to ruffle the drapes. Music and laughter spilled through, too, and Tashyia’s smile widened. They’d be traveling again soon, but for these few weeks - before the caravans were packed and the spring calves were born - they lived in a tiny cluster of houses southeast of Stromgarde. It was never a long stop, but it was an enjoyable one, and the family made some of its best memories on the rushes of this cottage floor. Her father polished his gems until they gleamed, her mother cooked and sewed and brewed her herbal remedies, her brother . . .
“SOD OFF, YE TOSSER.”
The song stopped abruptly, replaced instead by angry childish screams.
“Oi. Bless yer Light, that’s yer brother.”
“M’goin’ Ma.” Tash dropped her knitting and grabbed her cane, limping her way to the front of the house. She poked her head outside, narrowly avoiding a small fist to the face. As far as she could tell, there were two boys scuffling. One was Garren, the village bully, whose arm was held high above his head, her brother’s tin whistle in hand. The other was Bricu. His legs were wrapped around the older boy’s back like a monkey, his arms waved wildly as he pummeled with both fists.
“OCH! The two aye yeh, stop it ‘fore I shove my cane up yer arses. Garren, give it o’er. That’s Bricu’s, not yers.”
From inside the house, there was the clang of pans. “OI! Watch yer language, Missy.”
“Sorry, Mum.” Tashyia rolled her eyes, turning back to the fighting children. Garren was now on his knees, her brother having beaten him into submission. There was a plaintive whine as another punch landed. The whistle dropped when his arms wrapped around his head, protecting himself from the small, red fiend attached to his back.
Tash wasted little time knocking it away with the end of her cane.
Bricu, for his part, immediately lost interest in the older boy. He hopped down like nothing had happened even though his hair was tussled and a streak of dirt smudged him from temple to chin. There was a big toothy grin as he retrieved his whistle, settling down on the stump by the front door.
“Are yeh ‘appy now?” Tashyia asked, trying not to smile. One minute ago he’d been beating Garren like the boy was the nether’s own, and now . . . well, he looked as innocent as a spring bloom in his green knickers and cloth shoes.
“Aye, Sis.”
And that was it. He began to play again, ignoring the whimpering Garren, ignoring his sister’s appraising stare.
“Right. Yer mad, Bric.”
He didn’t say anything, just continued his song, and Tashyia hobbled back inside, a chagrined smile plastered on her face.
Tashyia jerked the brightly colored sweater away from her mother’s clutches. Her needle jutted from the neck portion, where a small web of yarns had begun to knot. “Ma, yer just gonna do it fer meh an’ I’ll nae learn.”
“Ye stubborn ass. Just like yer Da, ye are.” The gray haired woman smiled. “Fine. Take yer needle an’ loop the yarn o’er it. Yer goin’ under. An’ pull it tight, ye ken?”
“Yeh just ‘ad to say tha’ in the first place.”
Tashyia’s tongue poked out of the side of her mouth as she did as her mother advised. Her small, adroit hands moved the yarns into place, and she recreated her last stitch, only this time, it wasn’t backwards and malformed. She squealed triumphantly, holding her sweater in front of her like a great prize. “Ah ha!”
“Ye did it! Nice job, Lass.”
The faint sound of a tin whistle drifted in through the door. All the windows were open in the thatched house, allowing the Arathi breeze to ruffle the drapes. Music and laughter spilled through, too, and Tashyia’s smile widened. They’d be traveling again soon, but for these few weeks - before the caravans were packed and the spring calves were born - they lived in a tiny cluster of houses southeast of Stromgarde. It was never a long stop, but it was an enjoyable one, and the family made some of its best memories on the rushes of this cottage floor. Her father polished his gems until they gleamed, her mother cooked and sewed and brewed her herbal remedies, her brother . . .
“SOD OFF, YE TOSSER.”
The song stopped abruptly, replaced instead by angry childish screams.
“Oi. Bless yer Light, that’s yer brother.”
“M’goin’ Ma.” Tash dropped her knitting and grabbed her cane, limping her way to the front of the house. She poked her head outside, narrowly avoiding a small fist to the face. As far as she could tell, there were two boys scuffling. One was Garren, the village bully, whose arm was held high above his head, her brother’s tin whistle in hand. The other was Bricu. His legs were wrapped around the older boy’s back like a monkey, his arms waved wildly as he pummeled with both fists.
“OCH! The two aye yeh, stop it ‘fore I shove my cane up yer arses. Garren, give it o’er. That’s Bricu’s, not yers.”
From inside the house, there was the clang of pans. “OI! Watch yer language, Missy.”
“Sorry, Mum.” Tashyia rolled her eyes, turning back to the fighting children. Garren was now on his knees, her brother having beaten him into submission. There was a plaintive whine as another punch landed. The whistle dropped when his arms wrapped around his head, protecting himself from the small, red fiend attached to his back.
Tash wasted little time knocking it away with the end of her cane.
Bricu, for his part, immediately lost interest in the older boy. He hopped down like nothing had happened even though his hair was tussled and a streak of dirt smudged him from temple to chin. There was a big toothy grin as he retrieved his whistle, settling down on the stump by the front door.
“Are yeh ‘appy now?” Tashyia asked, trying not to smile. One minute ago he’d been beating Garren like the boy was the nether’s own, and now . . . well, he looked as innocent as a spring bloom in his green knickers and cloth shoes.
“Aye, Sis.”
And that was it. He began to play again, ignoring the whimpering Garren, ignoring his sister’s appraising stare.
“Right. Yer mad, Bric.”
He didn’t say anything, just continued his song, and Tashyia hobbled back inside, a chagrined smile plastered on her face.
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.
Re: As a Child: Writing Project
(Part the Second)
Brother Olfric didn’t believe in coincidences.
Not anymore, at least. 50 years or so of service to a tiny mining town had taught him a lot about providence, and sticking together, and about the rugged, simple strength of the people that showed up week in and week out at his tiny, wood frame church.
When the huge, old tree outside had fallen, and the sons and daughters of the town came to chop it into firewood, he had been sad - it’d been like an old friend, watching over the cemetery. But that firewood had been an unexpected blessing, bringing not only him but also another family through the worst set of blizzards on record.
He’d thought he would miss chasing the kids out of it, but it turned out they hung around anyway - especially Aely. He had a soft spot for the girl, as much as he tried not to play favorites. She’d stop by in the afternoons after school, helping out the hunched priest with his daily duties, caring for the only things of monetary value in the entire building - candle holders.
“Y’ken, Aely, now that you’re done, there’s two beautiful things in m’church,” he’d said once - and she’d laughed.
She reminded him of his wife, or maybe his daughter - he didn’t know. Both gone with fever on to the next world so long past. But she was kind and quick to laughter, and seemed genuinely to care for the arthritic old man he’d become.
So when it was time to make the trip to Stratholme for the Spring Fair and get more candles and oil, more incense and maybe some new linens, and catch up on the news coming out of Lordaeron, it was no coincidence that he asked the teenager to go with him.
She was, of course, thrilled - and her enthusiasm was infectious.
Olfric figured she’d probably been all the way to the city only a handful of times in her life, and this time she’d be going without her family. And this time they’d be there for two whole days.
Lars Hansson had asked him to their home for dinner the night before they left, and he’d accepted gratefully. Their home was peaceful, and Aely’s mother was a fantastic cook. The kind of cook that could take a cabinet full of nothing and turn it into a meal for six - which she needed, since Leofred was turning 14 this year and eating like his legs were hollow. A huge meal of stew and potatoes and warm, fresh bread would set them off on the right foot the next morning.
*****
Stratholme was as it always seemed to be during the Spring festivals. Crammed with people, sheep, goats, oxen, carts, and every other manner of everything you’d want to find in a big city that was just waking up from being snowed in for 4 months. The redheaded girl was easy enough to find - she was taller than most, and her hair made her something of a beacon.
And then Sunday afternoon, after they’d bought all he’d need for the church for the next year and were packing up the horses to head back, he noticed her watching something.
“What d’ ye see?” he asked.
“Procession a’ some sorts?”
“Aye, th’ Order’s makin’ another Paladin this noon, an’ they’re sayin’ Uther Lightbringer his own self’ll be there. Ye want t’ go watch?”
Brother Olfric didn’t believe in coincidences.
Not anymore, at least. 50 years or so of service to a tiny mining town had taught him a lot about providence, and sticking together, and about the rugged, simple strength of the people that showed up week in and week out at his tiny, wood frame church.
When the huge, old tree outside had fallen, and the sons and daughters of the town came to chop it into firewood, he had been sad - it’d been like an old friend, watching over the cemetery. But that firewood had been an unexpected blessing, bringing not only him but also another family through the worst set of blizzards on record.
He’d thought he would miss chasing the kids out of it, but it turned out they hung around anyway - especially Aely. He had a soft spot for the girl, as much as he tried not to play favorites. She’d stop by in the afternoons after school, helping out the hunched priest with his daily duties, caring for the only things of monetary value in the entire building - candle holders.
“Y’ken, Aely, now that you’re done, there’s two beautiful things in m’church,” he’d said once - and she’d laughed.
She reminded him of his wife, or maybe his daughter - he didn’t know. Both gone with fever on to the next world so long past. But she was kind and quick to laughter, and seemed genuinely to care for the arthritic old man he’d become.
So when it was time to make the trip to Stratholme for the Spring Fair and get more candles and oil, more incense and maybe some new linens, and catch up on the news coming out of Lordaeron, it was no coincidence that he asked the teenager to go with him.
She was, of course, thrilled - and her enthusiasm was infectious.
Olfric figured she’d probably been all the way to the city only a handful of times in her life, and this time she’d be going without her family. And this time they’d be there for two whole days.
Lars Hansson had asked him to their home for dinner the night before they left, and he’d accepted gratefully. Their home was peaceful, and Aely’s mother was a fantastic cook. The kind of cook that could take a cabinet full of nothing and turn it into a meal for six - which she needed, since Leofred was turning 14 this year and eating like his legs were hollow. A huge meal of stew and potatoes and warm, fresh bread would set them off on the right foot the next morning.
*****
Stratholme was as it always seemed to be during the Spring festivals. Crammed with people, sheep, goats, oxen, carts, and every other manner of everything you’d want to find in a big city that was just waking up from being snowed in for 4 months. The redheaded girl was easy enough to find - she was taller than most, and her hair made her something of a beacon.
And then Sunday afternoon, after they’d bought all he’d need for the church for the next year and were packing up the horses to head back, he noticed her watching something.
“What d’ ye see?” he asked.
“Procession a’ some sorts?”
“Aye, th’ Order’s makin’ another Paladin this noon, an’ they’re sayin’ Uther Lightbringer his own self’ll be there. Ye want t’ go watch?”
[5.OOC] Beltar: Hammer of What The Fuck Were You Thinking