Timestamp: 67th Day of Autumn, 512 A.V. At times, Alses was very thankful indeed that Lhavit didn't operate on what might be called a conventional day and night cycle, rather preferring at twenty-four bell clock with blocks of work interspersed with blocks of rest. It meant that, no matter the time, Lhavit was never entirely asleep, and that her own dawn activities attracted no more attention than had they been conducted at a rather more civilised time of the morning. Even the students of the Towers Respite, a group that elsewhere was generally famed for its late rising, didn't bat an eyelid at a resolute Ethaefal marching out into the city at the crack of dawn, nor at the cacophony of thumps, crashes and inventive swearwords that generally accompanied her gardening efforts whenever she undertook them. Alses yawned and stretched, arching her back up off the bed as she came around from vague, half-formed dreaming and into full operating wakefulness, roused by that infallible internal clock that screamed 'DAWN!' and heralded the Change from mortal Konti to glorious celestial Ethaefal, the shimmering wave of golden lights that swept over her insensate form and restored her heavenly form for another twelve bells or so. Less now, of course, as Syna's influence over the world waned and Leth's waxed, causing shorter days and longer nights, which meant that she started later and accomplished less than she had during the balmy summer season. The thought brought a still-sleepy scowl to her perfect features, sending momentary creases dancing across fire-opal skin, before her face smoothed once more into passivity. It was a natural rhythm, ordained by Tanroa herself, if the legends were to be believed, and one Ethaefal's dislike of it wouldn't change the minds of the greatest gods in the heavens. Never mind, never mind. Moving on autopilot, Alses padded across the warm skyglass floor – grateful as ever for that gentle heat, remembering with a wince the chill stone floors of her master's tower in Zeltiva – to the washbasin, leaving her bed a tangled mess of sheets and blankets, the number of which had steadily been growing as the temperatures dropped. The small mirror over the stone bowl showed perfection, as usual – Alses had never seen the need or even experienced the desire to cover up blemishes with various compounds, since she had none, and in any case even the most sparkling of makeup powders and shadows she'd been able to find simply paled into dullness next to the flamboyant opalescent shimmer of her skin. Absently, she splashed water – hissing at the chill as it struck her bed-warmed flesh – on her face and gills, following it quickly with the harsh orange-scented soap the Respite provided before rinsing off and groping for the towel. Her ablutions were brief – she was going to spend the day in the garden, after all, getting mucky and sweaty and all-around hot and bothered, so it really would have been a total waste to wash and soak and perfume herself in the Respite's baths only to plunge straight into a pile of manure. That wasn't what she was planning on doing, of course, but the analogy served well enough. Plus, of course, Ethaefal grace aside and taking into account perfidious chance, it could happen despite her best efforts to the contrary.
A The Respite gardens were a positive winter wonderland, every blade of grass, every leaf and branch edged in sparkling white, fern patterns uncoiling across frozen foliage, every spar and frond of ice shimmering in the early-morning sunlight. The scallop-raked pebbles of the pathways gleamed, too, with their own winter finery, and her breath billowed out in hot clouds of dragonsbreath that rose up to the powder-blue sky. Her footsteps crunched on the first frost as she made her way resolutely towards the little pavilion in one corner of the gardens, an oasis free of frost in the lacy fantasy that the grounds had become, thanks to the gentle warmth of the skyglass that glowed gently, serenely, in the lemon-yellow rays of a fine Lhavitian dawn. Inside was warm and light, as ever, and everything was meticulously organized according to her own system and, thanks to the state she'd found it in when she first started, every tool was carefully labelled and the recipe for the weedkiller carefully noted down and pinned over the bottles of the stuff. Alses' fingers danced over the racks of wooden handles, plucking out a plethora of gardening implements and loading them into the crook of her arm – forks, trowels, rakes and much else besides; sturdy wooden canes and a small bale of Okomo fleece securely tied up with rope and a sloshing pot of noxious weedkiller, to name but a few. Thusly burdened, she clattered out onto the paths, trusting to her own surefootedness as an aegis against the frost-slippery pebbles as she made her way towards the Respite's sheltered and hidden vegetable garden. Today was, as per Martin the gardener's instructions, the time to really give the place a damn good forking-over, assault any perfidious dandelions and any vegetables that hadn't manged to measure up to the required standard. A thought struck her, and she smiled – it would probably be an excellent idea to give things a jolly good dousing with that weedkiller while she was at it. The stuff was certainly toxic enough to ensure that no invading weed would be able to survive the winter. Steamy smoke was rising in great plumes from the chimneys of the kitchens as the staff there prepared for the day, putting the finishing touches to the breakfasts and already making inroads on luncheon. More columns of white vapour, matched with spires of black smoke, rose from the drying rooms, where the rich autumnal harvest of herbs and spices was being slowly dessicated, deprived of moisture by the furnace-like dry heat, ready to provide seasoning for all manner of hearty stews and casseroles come winter – or at least, that's what Cook had said. Alses was supremely indifferent to the culinary importance of all of this activity, however; her focus was, as ever, on the plants – or, rather, now on the beds which had held the annuals. Only a few forlorn wisps of green stood out against the silver-edged brown of the frosty ground – remnant leaves and the occasionally defiantly-hardy weed, the jaggedy leaves of dandelions infuriatingly shining in the light. Hands on hips, she surveyed her chilly dominion, breath steaming in the wintry air. “Right.” A grin, exposing white, almost fanged teeth. “To battle, then!” And with that, she jammed the heavy gardening fork into the rich earth of one of the vegetable beds, twisting it with Ethaefal strength – and a grunt of effort - until the unyielding steel tines cut through the hard ground and broke it up. The fork rose and fell with energetic regularity, stabbing again and again into the soil until its back was broken and every scrap of the shimmering silvery frost was completely gone, a shattered mass of earthy lumps replacing it. |