Time: Late Summer, 497 AV
Place: Amaranthine Path
They were fighting again.
“The horse is nearly dead, what makes you think that we can make it up that”
"The horse is perfectly fine. What kind of excuse is that?"
"It's not an excuse. Are you daft?"
“Don’t talk to me like that! And we will because I said we will. If the horse dies, then you’re going to pull the cart yourself. How is that for incentive?”
“Pretty petching poor, if you ask me. I’m not pulling nothing, especially not the cart. Make the girl…-”
“Don’t you even talk about her.”
One or the other of the arguers had stormed away. The shouts grew fainter until Cailet could no longer hear her mother or the man whose name she had not been allowed to learn. She knew it would be dark before either of them returned, leaving her to set up their camp. Tall for a girl of seven, Cailet was equally scrawny for her size. With all of her baby fat gone long before she was to even hit puberty, it was evident that her stature was due to hard work and poor food; she was only a couple meals shy of malnutrition. That made no difference, however, as she was still expected to pull her weight. With her sleeping quarters already situated in the back of their cart, Cailet had to hurry to make sure that her mother and the man’s tent was erected before their return or nightfall, whichever came first. She dared not think of the penalties should the work not be done in time.
The cart that held all their possessions was a rickty thing; it had seen many roads and many more miles. It was an uncovered cart, making it a simple task to place and remove items from within, but provided poor shelter in any kind of weather. This was a problem that only Cailet noticed, as her meager belongings and sleeping stuffs were tucked away in the far corner, away from the wind but not the rain or snow. It was not uncommon for the young girl to wake wet and shivering in the middle of the night, thanks to a freak storm. She had even learned to dread the morning dew, as it settled in a fine sheet over her sleeping form, only to drench her when she moved. The horse that pulled the cart was old, but sturdy and had been around since before Cailet could walk. She called him Whisper, for that was the tone in which she had to speak if she wanted to talk to the beast. Her mother didn’t approve of her making much noise.
Jumping down from the cart, after making sure her possessions were covered with a thick fur, Cailet took hold of Whisper’s bridle, leading him off the road and into the shelter of the trees. Happening upon a decently flat piece of ground, Cailet stopped and unhitched Whisper, allowing him to graze while she searched the surrounding area for dry wood and twigs. It took longer than she expected; there had been rainfall recently, and most of the tinder was soaked through and no good for a fire. It was nearly half an hour before the girl returned to the campsite with an armful of wood, and an armful for a seven year old is not much at all. But still she managed a fire, albeit a small one. Next, a pot was retrieved from the cart and filled by the stream just beyond the treeline, next to a winding path. This she set over the blossoming fire to boil. Crossing her fingers that the fire would still be burning when she was done, Cailet set upon the task of setting up the tent.
It was hardest when done alone, but alone was how Cailet was used to doing things. For years, it had hours of struggle to get the tent up; sticking the poles in the ground on one side and sprinting desperately over to the other in hopes of getting those poles up before the first fell down. It was only recently she had learned to make use of her surroundings, though it still took the girl a while to set up. First, she took the main support pole and leaned it against the sturdiest tree, twisting one end into the ground to make sure it didn’t fall over. Holding the second support pole and draping the canvas over the top to make the actual tent, Cailet then quickly shoved the stake attached to the corner nearest to her into the ground, pulling the canvas taut. From there, it was easy.
Sleeping furs, blankets and sleeping pads were heaved from the back of the cart and carried over to the tent. The bed inside was carefully laid out and made, with all the small rocks and twigs removed for optimum comfort. Whisper was then secured for the night, rubbed down and fed a scoop of oats. When alone, Cailet also slipped him an apple or piece of fruit. The old horse would always nicker it’s thanks, and give the girl a gentle nudge before she went away. The animal was the only one that ever gave her any thanks.
By the time her mother returned, Cailet had the fire glowing brightly, their supper cooking slowly over the flames. Without a word to her daughter, Florena located her tent and slipped inside, letting the flap fall closed behind her. The man was soon to follow her into the tent, but not before stopping by the fire, glaring at Cailet and grabbing most of the meat she had roasted, leaving only scraps. Complaining would do more damage than good, she had learned, so the little girl silently ate what was left, doused the fire and climbed back into the cart.
Deep beneath her many blankets, Cailet fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of the next city to appear, which ever it may be. The steep, winding mountain path that lay before them, on the other side of the trees, had caused the fight between her mother and the man. But Cailet knew there had to be something up the mountain, falling asleep praying that they would make it to the top. There, she could escape for a few days, eat more than scraps, sleep on something better than rags, and perhaps learn something new.
Place: Amaranthine Path
They were fighting again.
“The horse is nearly dead, what makes you think that we can make it up that”
"The horse is perfectly fine. What kind of excuse is that?"
"It's not an excuse. Are you daft?"
“Don’t talk to me like that! And we will because I said we will. If the horse dies, then you’re going to pull the cart yourself. How is that for incentive?”
“Pretty petching poor, if you ask me. I’m not pulling nothing, especially not the cart. Make the girl…-”
“Don’t you even talk about her.”
One or the other of the arguers had stormed away. The shouts grew fainter until Cailet could no longer hear her mother or the man whose name she had not been allowed to learn. She knew it would be dark before either of them returned, leaving her to set up their camp. Tall for a girl of seven, Cailet was equally scrawny for her size. With all of her baby fat gone long before she was to even hit puberty, it was evident that her stature was due to hard work and poor food; she was only a couple meals shy of malnutrition. That made no difference, however, as she was still expected to pull her weight. With her sleeping quarters already situated in the back of their cart, Cailet had to hurry to make sure that her mother and the man’s tent was erected before their return or nightfall, whichever came first. She dared not think of the penalties should the work not be done in time.
The cart that held all their possessions was a rickty thing; it had seen many roads and many more miles. It was an uncovered cart, making it a simple task to place and remove items from within, but provided poor shelter in any kind of weather. This was a problem that only Cailet noticed, as her meager belongings and sleeping stuffs were tucked away in the far corner, away from the wind but not the rain or snow. It was not uncommon for the young girl to wake wet and shivering in the middle of the night, thanks to a freak storm. She had even learned to dread the morning dew, as it settled in a fine sheet over her sleeping form, only to drench her when she moved. The horse that pulled the cart was old, but sturdy and had been around since before Cailet could walk. She called him Whisper, for that was the tone in which she had to speak if she wanted to talk to the beast. Her mother didn’t approve of her making much noise.
Jumping down from the cart, after making sure her possessions were covered with a thick fur, Cailet took hold of Whisper’s bridle, leading him off the road and into the shelter of the trees. Happening upon a decently flat piece of ground, Cailet stopped and unhitched Whisper, allowing him to graze while she searched the surrounding area for dry wood and twigs. It took longer than she expected; there had been rainfall recently, and most of the tinder was soaked through and no good for a fire. It was nearly half an hour before the girl returned to the campsite with an armful of wood, and an armful for a seven year old is not much at all. But still she managed a fire, albeit a small one. Next, a pot was retrieved from the cart and filled by the stream just beyond the treeline, next to a winding path. This she set over the blossoming fire to boil. Crossing her fingers that the fire would still be burning when she was done, Cailet set upon the task of setting up the tent.
It was hardest when done alone, but alone was how Cailet was used to doing things. For years, it had hours of struggle to get the tent up; sticking the poles in the ground on one side and sprinting desperately over to the other in hopes of getting those poles up before the first fell down. It was only recently she had learned to make use of her surroundings, though it still took the girl a while to set up. First, she took the main support pole and leaned it against the sturdiest tree, twisting one end into the ground to make sure it didn’t fall over. Holding the second support pole and draping the canvas over the top to make the actual tent, Cailet then quickly shoved the stake attached to the corner nearest to her into the ground, pulling the canvas taut. From there, it was easy.
Sleeping furs, blankets and sleeping pads were heaved from the back of the cart and carried over to the tent. The bed inside was carefully laid out and made, with all the small rocks and twigs removed for optimum comfort. Whisper was then secured for the night, rubbed down and fed a scoop of oats. When alone, Cailet also slipped him an apple or piece of fruit. The old horse would always nicker it’s thanks, and give the girl a gentle nudge before she went away. The animal was the only one that ever gave her any thanks.
By the time her mother returned, Cailet had the fire glowing brightly, their supper cooking slowly over the flames. Without a word to her daughter, Florena located her tent and slipped inside, letting the flap fall closed behind her. The man was soon to follow her into the tent, but not before stopping by the fire, glaring at Cailet and grabbing most of the meat she had roasted, leaving only scraps. Complaining would do more damage than good, she had learned, so the little girl silently ate what was left, doused the fire and climbed back into the cart.
Deep beneath her many blankets, Cailet fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of the next city to appear, which ever it may be. The steep, winding mountain path that lay before them, on the other side of the trees, had caused the fight between her mother and the man. But Cailet knew there had to be something up the mountain, falling asleep praying that they would make it to the top. There, she could escape for a few days, eat more than scraps, sleep on something better than rags, and perhaps learn something new.
