Bird Speak | Common | Vani | Others | 32 Winter, 513 AV
Winter had hit Altaira hard. The sun had barely fallen below the horizon when the biting cold settled in. She took in a deep breath and pulled her blanket from her bed, taking seat beside the chest that held her life in memories, and basking in the warm glow of the hearth.
Her nose then crinkled and breath left her in a girlish giggle, thoughts of home and childhood hitting her in a sold wave: the scent of salted fish, commands barked and breathless, sweet morning songs, vigorous training and days of laughter and play. She missed them. She didn’t like the world beyond the ice walls and boundless snowfields, she wasn’t fond of sneers and glares and the constant need to watch one’s back. She didn’t like how unwelcoming everyone seemed, how none took the time to learn and understand, how her kind along with many others were placed below the human standard. What was seen and taken as inherent behaviour in Avanthal was a ‘bad habit’ that needed to be fixed. What she saw as an act and state natural was at times terms indecent and unabashed.
Humans were funny.
But so were kelvics.
A huff and a half laugh left her at the thought, coming to the realisation that she was acting just like her canine brother did, before their mother died. Avanthal was a city of eternal winter, and the kelvic used to sleep so close to the hearth that his hair would singe and grey coat blacken. Even her eldest half brother sister was never so silly, or at least that was what Altaira was told.
One after another, she let the memories jump and flit and switch. Back and forth through her younger days, jumping from playful fights, to her first flight, forward to venture through snow and ice, back to banter and play and making a mockery of how long it was taking the youngest girl to grow, how she had to hurry up lest she be left behind as her little brother and older half siblings outgrew her like they did humans and other races.
The moment Altaira's thoughts slipped to the only one younger than herself, the only sibling she had bound by full blood, she sat bolt upright, and her hands found the latches of the chest. With an absent mind she opened the simple, clunky lock and lid, and seized the first thing her hand touched, a chill riveting her spine as she touched cold iron. It was one of her newer daggers, bought for throwing and self defence in light of a brawl or two that she’d witnessed and events that had occurred with Millicent. No one died, that she cared about, though the injuries seemed serious enough.
Brawling, it was called. A form of fighting informal in comparison to the one that she herself preferred to engage in, it was brutal and bloody, and went against all that her instincts screamed. She liked feeling in control with nothing more than her own fists, and the thought of glass or wood or the use of the closest thing in use shook her to the core. It was too easy to cause too much damage, she thought.
When you swung a chair blindly at another there was little to known about how things would pan out. A punch was direct. It had aim and purpose, and if you knew enough about where to hit and how hard, the outcome, should it not be dodged, was easy enough to at least estimate. It was something that could be used should the need arise, and only then. There was no seeking to put one’s self in danger, no sacrificing one thing for another. It was for self defence and protection. There was no joy or thrill that came with it, nor any need for it.
Altaira brushed her fingers against the cold iron and checked the blade's balance, before sighing and resting her head on the wooden chest. "I-I wonder how it is they are doing..." Her word were sloppy, and twisted strangely by her tongue, though she could scarcely help herself but speak in the tongue most common to her hometown when that was what she spoke of – regardless of the language that she herself had more often used.
Her nose then crinkled and breath left her in a girlish giggle, thoughts of home and childhood hitting her in a sold wave: the scent of salted fish, commands barked and breathless, sweet morning songs, vigorous training and days of laughter and play. She missed them. She didn’t like the world beyond the ice walls and boundless snowfields, she wasn’t fond of sneers and glares and the constant need to watch one’s back. She didn’t like how unwelcoming everyone seemed, how none took the time to learn and understand, how her kind along with many others were placed below the human standard. What was seen and taken as inherent behaviour in Avanthal was a ‘bad habit’ that needed to be fixed. What she saw as an act and state natural was at times terms indecent and unabashed.
Humans were funny.
But so were kelvics.
A huff and a half laugh left her at the thought, coming to the realisation that she was acting just like her canine brother did, before their mother died. Avanthal was a city of eternal winter, and the kelvic used to sleep so close to the hearth that his hair would singe and grey coat blacken. Even her eldest half brother sister was never so silly, or at least that was what Altaira was told.
One after another, she let the memories jump and flit and switch. Back and forth through her younger days, jumping from playful fights, to her first flight, forward to venture through snow and ice, back to banter and play and making a mockery of how long it was taking the youngest girl to grow, how she had to hurry up lest she be left behind as her little brother and older half siblings outgrew her like they did humans and other races.
The moment Altaira's thoughts slipped to the only one younger than herself, the only sibling she had bound by full blood, she sat bolt upright, and her hands found the latches of the chest. With an absent mind she opened the simple, clunky lock and lid, and seized the first thing her hand touched, a chill riveting her spine as she touched cold iron. It was one of her newer daggers, bought for throwing and self defence in light of a brawl or two that she’d witnessed and events that had occurred with Millicent. No one died, that she cared about, though the injuries seemed serious enough.
Brawling, it was called. A form of fighting informal in comparison to the one that she herself preferred to engage in, it was brutal and bloody, and went against all that her instincts screamed. She liked feeling in control with nothing more than her own fists, and the thought of glass or wood or the use of the closest thing in use shook her to the core. It was too easy to cause too much damage, she thought.
When you swung a chair blindly at another there was little to known about how things would pan out. A punch was direct. It had aim and purpose, and if you knew enough about where to hit and how hard, the outcome, should it not be dodged, was easy enough to at least estimate. It was something that could be used should the need arise, and only then. There was no seeking to put one’s self in danger, no sacrificing one thing for another. It was for self defence and protection. There was no joy or thrill that came with it, nor any need for it.
Altaira brushed her fingers against the cold iron and checked the blade's balance, before sighing and resting her head on the wooden chest. "I-I wonder how it is they are doing..." Her word were sloppy, and twisted strangely by her tongue, though she could scarcely help herself but speak in the tongue most common to her hometown when that was what she spoke of – regardless of the language that she herself had more often used.
I love how you appropriately play to her Dagger skill level and the contemplations she had about her own life. Enjoy your grades!
