![Image](http://i59.tinypic.com/2h5uuys.jpg)
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Date
Streets of Taloba
"Kiva, pay attention."
The young girl looked upwards at the burly man with black skin, sighing at the mound of clay before her, "But I don't want to be a potter. Let me go home." She received a stern glare in response, already knowing his answer. 'Why must we make bowls for the festival?' Pouting, Kiva lowered her eyes back to her work, dipping her hands in the already dirty water beside her, and picked up the clay in her hands. She kneaded it her small palm, struggling to soften it. Sweat built up along her brow and back, even with the shade of thick clouds.
She wanted to throw it down and tell the man to find another child for this tedious labor... And she would've. If she was 15 years older and more of a warrior. Instead she was tall and lanky, nearly about to hit puberty and uncoordinated. So she worked, rolling the clay into a fat ball to hollow out. It was uneven and it took her longer than the other children to get it to a state she was happy with. She groaned audibly, receiving another annoyed look from her instructor.
"Work faster, and you can be done sooner." he snapped, raising his eyebrows with an equal amount of sass.
She rolled her eyes, feeling an attitude forming. Using her hands to smooth out the sides of her ball, she dropped it on the slab of wood in front of her, using the surface to flatten the bottom for a base. Beside her, a girl was nearly finished, and Kiva envied her. She tried to work faster, pushing her fingers downward and out, to begin creating a hole. She carefully worked, but lost interest in a few minutes, having to reapply water so that nothing would start to dry in the Falyndar heat.
And then her eyes began to wander... away from the group and to those walking around the city. Men with heavy packs to sell, an ashta and it's rider. Some warriors. A few women with children on their hip and jagged swords in their hand. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except the foreigner with white skin and eyes that seemed to dart to and fro. He held something in his hand, something wooden with strings, and he sat beneath a tree with it in his hands. It looked like an instrument she had never seen and the sound of it carried to where they sat. It took a moment for her to see the long stick in his other hand, and she leaned forward to get a better look.
Her hands limp and no longer working on her pottery, she felt a sharp smack against her head, and yelped, her hand flying to the top of her head. "Finish your work, Kiva. Chukumu yala."
The pain still fresh, Kiva clenched her hands into fists, locking her shoulders and threw more water onto her clay. Out of spite, she worked quickly and sloppily, digging her fingers into the brown clay with angry fervor. She hated being scolded.
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Date
Streets of Taloba
"Kiva, pay attention."
The young girl looked upwards at the burly man with black skin, sighing at the mound of clay before her, "But I don't want to be a potter. Let me go home." She received a stern glare in response, already knowing his answer. 'Why must we make bowls for the festival?' Pouting, Kiva lowered her eyes back to her work, dipping her hands in the already dirty water beside her, and picked up the clay in her hands. She kneaded it her small palm, struggling to soften it. Sweat built up along her brow and back, even with the shade of thick clouds.
She wanted to throw it down and tell the man to find another child for this tedious labor... And she would've. If she was 15 years older and more of a warrior. Instead she was tall and lanky, nearly about to hit puberty and uncoordinated. So she worked, rolling the clay into a fat ball to hollow out. It was uneven and it took her longer than the other children to get it to a state she was happy with. She groaned audibly, receiving another annoyed look from her instructor.
"Work faster, and you can be done sooner." he snapped, raising his eyebrows with an equal amount of sass.
She rolled her eyes, feeling an attitude forming. Using her hands to smooth out the sides of her ball, she dropped it on the slab of wood in front of her, using the surface to flatten the bottom for a base. Beside her, a girl was nearly finished, and Kiva envied her. She tried to work faster, pushing her fingers downward and out, to begin creating a hole. She carefully worked, but lost interest in a few minutes, having to reapply water so that nothing would start to dry in the Falyndar heat.
And then her eyes began to wander... away from the group and to those walking around the city. Men with heavy packs to sell, an ashta and it's rider. Some warriors. A few women with children on their hip and jagged swords in their hand. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except the foreigner with white skin and eyes that seemed to dart to and fro. He held something in his hand, something wooden with strings, and he sat beneath a tree with it in his hands. It looked like an instrument she had never seen and the sound of it carried to where they sat. It took a moment for her to see the long stick in his other hand, and she leaned forward to get a better look.
Her hands limp and no longer working on her pottery, she felt a sharp smack against her head, and yelped, her hand flying to the top of her head. "Finish your work, Kiva. Chukumu yala."
The pain still fresh, Kiva clenched her hands into fists, locking her shoulders and threw more water onto her clay. Out of spite, she worked quickly and sloppily, digging her fingers into the brown clay with angry fervor. She hated being scolded.