Small Wonders
I have lost track of who has which update, so I am putting them all in one thread for now. Since I cannot RP at the moment, I will keep posting any new stories here instead of sending them one by one, since I seem to have done a lot of these by now.
The small waiting room had whitewashed walls and plain wooden benches lining them. Osric sat hunched forward on one of them, a deep frown carved into his face. His forearms rested against his knees, hands clasped so tightly they looked like they might break. It was the posture of prayer, but his lips didn’t move. He just stared at the floor, unmoving.
It had been more than an hour since the Sisters had closed the door to the birthing room. From beyond it came muffled movement, hurried footsteps, and the raw cries of a woman in pain. He flinched each time the sound rose, uncertain whether it was dread or guilt that twisted in his stomach.
He shot up from his seat the moment the door opened, his owlish gaze locking onto the Sisters as they stepped out. They wore simple brown robes, each cinched at the waist with a red cord. One of them carried a small bundle wrapped in soft linen.
She gave him a gentle smile as she approached and placed the baby in his arms. He stared down at her. She looked so small.
“She’s so small,” he said quietly. “Is she all right?” He cradled her as if she were made of glass, arms stiff with care and wonder.
“She is healthy and within range in size, Brother Osric. She only looks small in your arms,” the Sister replied softly.
There she was—his Petra. Just a tiny little thing. Just a delicate little speck. Wrapped up and warm in his arms.
Osric cradles Petra. Her tiny body fits neatly into the crook of one arm. The nursery is quiet in the early morning. The first streaks of light pierce through the window lattice and spill across the floor in soft lines.
He peers down at her, silent, in his usual way. Then --her eyes meet his. Not by chance. Not in passing. She looks at him, steady and intentional. His lips part in quiet surprise.
“Hallo, little rock,” he whispers.
His features soften, the corners of his eyes crinkling in something dangerously close to a smile. She stares. He stares. Silent.
He sat with little Petra in his arms, her body curled easily against his chest. Wisps of pale blonde hair were beginning to come in, fine and soft like dandelion fluff. She wore a powder-pink onesie trimmed with white frills at the collar and sleeves, the fabric embroidered with tiny flowers and ribboned bows. It was the sort of outfit chosen with doting affection; utterly impractical and completely charming.
In his free hand, he held up a toy, an imitation rock made of cloth, stitched in the dull black of crinkled velvet. It rustled loudly with the slightest touch.
“This is Schorl,” he said softly. “A type of tourmaline, high in iron. We have a great deal of it in Damara. In the Underdark, they call it Ravenar. It is a known evocation spell component.”
Petra stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. He gave the toy a light squeeze: crinkle. Her hand wobbled forward and landed on it; squish, then release.
“Ja,” Osric said with a slow, approving nod.
By the nursery door, Sereta, the nanny, stood silently, arms folded. She said nothing, only watched, completely baffled.
The archivist paced nervously in the forelobby of the small archive, a modest tower of weathered stone with shuttered windows and a sagging sign that read Moon-Swept Archives. She paused every few moments to glance at the door, wringing her hands as muffled sounds of the street filtered in through the thick glass.
At last, the door opened with a quiet groan. Osric stepped inside, the sounds of the bustling city trailing behind him before the door shut again with a muffled thud. In one arm, he carried a cradle-basket, and slung over his shoulder was a canvas slip filled with slim, brightly-bound children’s books.
Hearing the entrance, the archivist called out in a rush, “Thank you for coming, I am so sorry about this—” She turned mid-sentence and halted. “Oh. I did not think you would bring the baby.”
Osric stared at her, owlish and expressionless. “It is story time,” he said simply.
He stared. She stared. The baby stared.
“Right… of course,” she said, flustered. “I really appreciate this. Truly.” And with that, she darted past him and out the front door in a swirl of robes and apologies.
Osric moved deeper into the archive. The narrow building opened into a tall chamber, its walls lined with shelves that stretched two, even three stories high, filled with dry tomes and curling maps. He made his way to one of the central reading tables and gently set the cradle-basket down.
Inside was Petra, dressed in a ruffled blue gown stitched with tiny wildflowers. Her booties were cream-colored knit, and a blue silk headband crowned her head, tied off in an enormous, slightly lopsided ribbon. She looked absurdly pleased with herself.
“It is much noisier during the day shift,” Osric remarked quietly as he began gathering scattered books from the nearest shelves. Petra kicked her feet against the padded edge of the cradle-basket and gave a soft squeal. The thick stone walls muffled the street sounds, leaving a warm hush hanging over the archive.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What do you want to read today?”
He turned over a couple of titles, reading aloud: “On the Practical Governance of Border Principalities and Tributary Holdings: A Treatise in Eight Volumes, by Magistrate Olliver Dandrym, Senior Archivist of Athkatla... or Apple’s Day at the Beach?”
He reached for an open folio and snapped it shut. The heavy parchment and cracked leather binding made a satisfying thwap.
Petra flapped her arms in surprise, then giggled.
Osric stilled. It was the first time he had heard her laugh. He stared at her, eyes slightly wide.
She stared back.
Slowly, his face softened. His mouth curved just slightly. He snapped the book again.
Peals of baby laughter filled the quiet chamber as she kicked and flailed in joy.
A quiet chuckle escaped him --rare, almost unfamiliar. “I suppose we are reading…” He checked the title. “Proper Conduct and Correspondence Among Gentlefolk of Rank and Repute, As Endorsed by the Court of Velen and the Writ-Keepers of Saelmur.”
He lifted a brow. “Oh gut. We would not want to be ignorant on the subject.”
Settling in, Osric began shelving books with one hand and reading aloud with the other, pausing now and then to snap a cover closed, just to hear her laugh again.
The sitting room had been thoroughly transformed for playtime. A colorful quilted mat sprawled across the floor, framed on all sides by the protective barrier of the couches. Toys lay scattered in cheerful disarray.
In the middle of it all, Petra lay on her stomach, her head lifted proudly, resting on her forearms. She pumped her legs with excited determination, small brows furrowed in focus.
She was dressed in a lavender onesie stitched with tiny embroidered bunnies. A fine wisp of blonde hair was gathered into a tiny tuft, tied with a matching lavender bow that bobbed gently each time she kicked.
Osric sat on the nearby couch, paperwork spilling in loose stacks around him. Noticing the sudden burst of motion from the mat, he lowered the book in his hand to watch her closely. She was due to crawl any day now. The house practically held its breath in expectation.
Petra squirmed and pushed, as if preparing to haul herself up onto hands and knees. A tiny, eager squeal escaped her. Even Sereta, just stepping into the room with a basket of groceries tucked against one hip, paused in the doorway to see what the baby might do.
With a determined grunt, Petra shoved off....and rolled over.
The moment hung in the air, the anticipation deflating like a quiet sigh. But then she rolled again. And again. Like a tiny, cheerful log tumbling down a gentle hill.
Osric straightened, silent, watching as she rolled purposefully toward her target: Whiskers, the Voting Cat Plushie. It was never too early to introduce lessons in civic responsibility.
With the faintest thud, Petra bumped squarely into the plushie. She squealed in delight and grabbed for it with both hands, victorious.
From the doorway, Sereta glanced at Osric. He glanced back.
“Everyone has their own way of doing it, I suppose,” he murmured.
Sereta shook her head with a quiet frown. Now they would have to ready the room for a rolling baby.
Sereta walked ahead, pushing an empty pram through the quiet morning streets. The shops were only just setting up; shutters creaked open, and fresh baskets of goods were carried to storefronts. Osric walked alongside her, dressed as always in somber black.
In his arms, Petra wriggled happily. She wore a cream-orange dress with frilled sleeves, tiny soft booties, and two small pigtails tied with matching ribbons; barely enough hair yet, but tied anyway.
“We will make sure to stop at the bookstore later,” Osric said, looking down at Petra rather than at Sereta. His voice softened, meant for her ears alone.
Petra answered with a bright coo, small hands patting at his chest.
“They will not have the book yet, but we can visit the dog. You like the dog,” he continued. Petra flapped both arms and babbled, a garbled string of joyful syllables.
Sereta let out a quiet “Hmph.” “You speak more to her than anyone else,” she muttered.
“She has to learn,” he said, glancing at the nanny only briefly before returning all his attention to Petra. “You have to learn. If it were as silent as I might prefer, there would be no learning at all, would there?” He lifted his brows at her in mild emphasis. Petra stared back, eyes wide with careful focus, then squealed and bounced in his arms as if to answer.
They turned the corner into the merchant square. At a nearby fruit stand, Osric nodded his greeting. “Hallo.”
Petra, in turn, flapped one arm like a tiny herald.
The fruit seller looked up, hesitating at the sight of the trio. “Uh, good morning.”
Petra let out a babble, this time deep and purposeful, mimicking Osric’s tone. She waved a small fist at the vendor, as if delivering a verdict.
The fruit seller looked at Osric, startled. “Um…”
“You do not seem to have any raspberries today. Are they still in the back?” Osric asked, calm as ever.
“Ah --no, sir. We are out.”
“They are out of raspberries,” Osric murmured to Petra, as though he were her translator, shifting her higher in his arms. She looked up at him, eyes round with gravity, then let out another chain of small, firm babbles.
Sereta looked away into the square, her lips pressed tight with embarrassment.
“Mangos?” Osric suggested to Petra in a quieter voice. Her squeal was immediate, her hands flapping. He nodded, satisfied. “Three mangos, then.”
The vendor handed them over; coins exchanged for golden fruit. Petra squirmed and kicked when she saw them tucked into the pram basket, her little feet drumming against Osric’s arm. Her hands were grabbing at the air as though she might catch the fruit.
He let out the faintest huff of amusement and dipped his head to press a kiss to her forehead. In return, Petra grabbed clumsily at his jaw, leaning in and landing what was meant to be a kiss but turned into an open-mouthed bite on his cheek. The intent was there; execution would come later.
A tiny, fleeting smile slipped across Osric’s face as he adjusted her in his arms. With Sereta falling in beside him again, they continued through the waking square. The pair carried on their soft, lopsided conversation as the city stirred around them.