Life of a Fireheart

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Amateur Hour
Posts: 545
Joined: Wed Dec 02, 2020 1:50 am

Life of a Fireheart

Post by Amateur Hour » Sun Dec 26, 2021 11:57 pm

10th of Tarsakh, 1375
-_-

A young elven woman stands before the door to a pale stone villa, her golden eyes fixed on the latch. Her fingers wiggle, clenching and unclenching before one hand raises to pat her black hair, checking to see if it is still smooth. She bites her lower lip, then breathes in sharply as she realizes it has been split with previous worries. A moment more, another deep breath, and she finally reaches out to open the door and enter.

Her first bare footfalls in the entryway are trepidatious and quiet, and she looks left and right to observe her surroundings; the villa, at first appearance, seems empty. With this assurance, she strides forward, peering through each archway as she passes until she reaches one covered by a translucent curtain. She stops, murmuring a quiet prayer to her Maker before her fingers wrap around the edge of the draped fabric,  the silk whispering as she pulls it aside to reveal the interior of the room. 

Seated by a window, angled to best catch the afternoon light on the embroidery stand before her, is an elderly elven woman so delicate the sun appears to stream through her, diaphanous layered blue-gray robes doing little to add substance to the frail form. There are perhaps a few more silver strands in the floor-sweeping dark plait, a few more heavy memories held in that languid gaze, but there is no mistaking the sitter.

“O'si?”

She speaks barely above a whisper, but the ethereal woman hears, her needle-hand drifting down as pale green eyes look up.

“Elia?”

It's as if a levee breaks. The young woman springs forward, crossing the room in three bounds to throw her arms around the seated elf. “Silsil, I'm so sorry! I wouldn't have left without—” She tries to force her way through the explanation she'd turned over and over in her head for the last month, really she does, but her intentions crumble to wracking sobs that shake both women.

“You have been much-missed, little wren.” Thin arms wrap around the young elf in a maternal embrace for a long moment, then releases her, placing her hands on the younger woman's upper arms and taking the opportunity to look her over. “We thought you must have run to your death. When Thion's letter reached us to say he had found you alive and whole, I could scarce believe it; Nechtan told us the island was full of untold dangers.”

“I doubled back to put off the scent; I didn't sail away until two winters ago. I promise, I never wanted to make you worry.”

A thumb brushes away a tear on the younger woman's golden cheek. “You are stronger than any of us gave you credit for. I only wish we had seen it earlier.” The older woman's head then tilts slightly, brows furrowing. “Oh, little wren, you've cut your hair.” Porcelain-fine fingers move to fondly stroke the midnight tresses.

“I had to, Silsil. It will grow back; it was even shorter before.”

“It seems you have quite the story to tell, then.”

“I do. But first.” She stands to her full height, taking the older woman's hands in her own, giving them the gentlest of squeezes. “O'si, there's someone I'd like you to meet, who's been waiting very anxiously to meet you.”
Last edited by Amateur Hour on Sun Jan 08, 2023 3:34 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Rolled: Solveigh Arnimayne, "Anna Locksley"
Shelved: Ninim Elario, Maethiel Tyireale'ala
Current: Ynge Redbeard, ???


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Amateur Hour
Posts: 545
Joined: Wed Dec 02, 2020 1:50 am

Re: Life of a Fireheart

Post by Amateur Hour » Sun Jan 08, 2023 3:33 pm

19th-20th of Eleint, 1368

-_-

Think small thoughts. Still thoughts. Quiet thoughts. Mouse thoughts.

The tiny elven woman forces herself to breathe slowly and deeply, to focus on the sound of the River Arduith and the bargemen's songs, the smells of autumn's bounty. Anything other than just how closely the crates and barrels are packed around her hiding place in the riverboat.

Twelve hours from Everantha to Leuthilspar. These twelve hours will be nothing in the scheme of centuries. She could survive anything for twelve hours, as long as she didn't get crushed -

Tiny mouse thoughts. Quiet mouse thoughts. Mice stay tiny and nearly-noiseless their whole lives; this is nothing. Six hours down, twelve to go.

-_-

A sharp series of loud knocks and scrapes against a nearby crate rouses her from reverie. Immediately she realizes the sounds and motion have changed; the barge must be docked. The barge is unloading. Her heart jumps to her throat as she feels the crate at her left elbow starting to shift, oh no oh no oh-

"Excuse me, gentlemen!" The feminine voice outside is familiar, though muffled. "Can I get your assistance with this crate? It's expected promptly at the Temple; someone's supposed to be coming from there to help me carry it, but I'm a bit too delicate to lift it myself." The footsteps pad away, the small shakes of impact through the barge's deck-boards growing fainter; it's an opening, the only one she'll get. One last prayer to the Trickster - please, just one last time, don't let them see me, I'll be quick as I can - and she reaches up to shove aside the crate lid that kept her hiding place concealed.

She doesn't stop to look around her; there's no time for that. She rises to her feet (sudden pain shoots through her knees from being stuck curled in a ball for eighteen hours, but she grits her teeth and bears it) swings herself over a barrel, then walks down the gangplank into a milling crowd that seems preternaturally uninterested in her.

It's done. She's free. No one's stopped her. Now comes the easy part.

"Yes, just over here and - oh! Praise the Father, there's my helper. Excellent work; may the Winsome Rose bless you evermore for your assistance."

That's the cue. She turns and walks forward towards the familiar-voiced elf, curling her shoulders forward ever so slightly, shortening her gait, casting her eyes down as if shy. The briefest of glances up reveals that the bargemen have eyes only for the devastatingly-beautiful golden-clad blonde and have yet to notice the dark-haired woman approaching, an unforeseen blessing but a welcome one.

"Temple sent me, Lady Dove. What do you need carried?" she pitches her voice up, trying her best to mimic the Leuthilspar accent to cover her normal rural lilt.

"Just the one box, thank you. Sweet water and light laughter, gentlemen!"

She reaches down to heft the crate - thank the Maker it's small and full of dried flower petals; the bargemen must have thought it ridiculous the priestess would need help once they lifted it - keeping her eyes lowered as she follows the blonde away from the busy river-dock. As soon as they're out of sight, shielded by the trees of Leuthilspar, the blonde lets out a held breath. "I thought we were done for when they started hauling those crates around you," she whispers, "it's a miracle you weren't caught."

"I know. I prayed for one, and I'll never forget it."

The blonde extends her arm to collect the crate from her companion, balancing it on one hip. "What will you do now?"

"Don't worry; I've got a plan." She flashes a quick, forced smile. "You and the Trickster got me this far. I can take it from here."

"If you say so. You're sure you don't want to go to my mother? You know she'd protect you, Aunt Trisfiel too."

"I'm sure. I don't want to know what would happen if I end up the crux of a family feud, and all he needs is one win if he knows where I am."

"If you say so," the blonde nods. "Well, then. You know where I'll be, if you need help."

"If I feel I need to, I promise I'll come find you." She throws her arms around the blonde's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Maker watch you."

The hug is returned with one arm. "Lady love you."

Rolled: Solveigh Arnimayne, "Anna Locksley"
Shelved: Ninim Elario, Maethiel Tyireale'ala
Current: Ynge Redbeard, ???


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