23rd Day of Spring, 498 AV
The mid afternoon bells announced the end of another day at the Academy, much to the young girl’s relief. It had been the type of day that wore on and on seemingly without end. At several different intervals she sighed and cast a dejected stare out the nearby window. Their lessons had been nothing but review - just practicing letters and discussing their upcoming reports. Eosi was already very good with her letters. The repetition seemed so incredibly pointless. Nothing ever moved fast enough for her, most especially her classes. By the time the children were tested on a particular skill, she’d all but mastered it. Challenge was what stimulated her and these days it was nowhere to be found.
As soon as their gaunt instructor released them, the chaotic little ginger was out the door. Supplies tucked under one arm, she walked briskly back toward her home, eager to discover some more fulfilling activity. Perhaps she’d be allowed down at the weaponsmithy with her Uncle, where he’d show her again how to hammer out steel. The way it glowed white hot, freshly forged… The power to shape metal seemed an unbelievable feat and it fascinated the young Inarta to no end. She liked to perch on his tallest stool like a cat and sit unmoving, eyes transfixed. Since she was never underfoot, they allowed her to do this on a semi-regular basis. Three times a week or more she’d find herself in the company of relatives as opposed to friends.
Of course, a contributing factor was the little girl’s advanced use of language. All the children her age found it pretentious. She fancied herself a little adult, using words like “endowed,” and “inundated.” It lent her an air of conceit that seemed detestable. Many of her peers walked away sniggering behind their hands. At first it had hurt her feelings. No child wanted to be alienated. But at a young age Eosi had concluded she was different, for better or worse. Instead she had chosen to learn from those who actually would abide her presence.
Approaching the two-tiered dwelling that was her home, the girl stopped. She admired how the sun caught the misty white smoke that roiled from the square chimney. Her Mother must be home, cooking something special for their evening meal! Eagerly, she darted across the threshold, some of the books flying forth from their resting place and skittering across the smooth stone floor. Before she could even stoop to collect them, a capable hand reached across her view and grabbed one by the binding. “Eosi,” the voice intoned. “Not so fast.” The tone was firm but clearly amused.
“Daddy!” Cheerful, she leapt into his outstretched arms. Her Father Laes was a lank, powerfully built man whose height could eclipse the sun. They shared the fiery hair of the Inarta, her corkscrew curls an echo of his gentle waves. Even their faces were similar - her petite features an echo of his chiseled ones. He spun her around with a grin, sending his young daughter into a giggle fit. In line with their little routine, he began to sing:
“Oh, I once met a girl with hair of the sun,
She always had a warrior man like me on the run
Then I met another girl with hair deepest black,
Poised as a yowlwing on the attack
Finally I met the girl of my waking dreams,
Ladies with the hair of red are the ones for me!”
Both of them joined together in song, her tiny voice chorusing with his. In the midst of the musical interlude, Laes set her down on the balls of her feet and the two of them began to dance.
“Ohhhhhhh,” they began:
“Give me the girls, the women born of fire,
Whose hearts were forged in Isur by the lilting of lyre
Oh, give me the girls, the women running free,
With eyes like desire and voices of the sea!”
The conclusion sent her into another fit of laughter. “Welcome home.” He said still breathless, ruffling her locks affectionately. “How were your lessons?” Shaking her head, she sighed. “Bo-ring,” she emphasized, suddenly miffed. “Why are the classes always so slow? They’re ponderous,” she said crisply. Her Father shook his head. “Search the whole world over and you’ll never find a more impatient little girl.” Bouncing on her heels suddenly, her head snapped toward the kitchen. “Mum is home?” She asked. He nodded and with that, she sped off, his sighing chuckle another noise in the background.
Her Mother stood waiting, leaning against the smooth countertop. She was a curvy woman, with close-cropped chestnut hair and eyes as tranquil as the sea. A feline grin was painted across her slender face and eagerly the little girl ran to her embrace. Layla sighed deeply and rested her chin atop the girl’s wild tresses. “Have you brushed your hair today?” She asked with parental concern. “Mooooooom,” Eosi whined, clearly having ignored her daily rituals. Every time her Mother would see her, her hands seemingly itched toward a comb. It was a painful process that usually took up to a quarter bell as her deft fingers tore the knots from her skull. “I hate brushing my hair!” Disengaging, she stamped her foot in indignation.
“Now Eosi,” she said in a tone that left no room for argument. “Your hair is like a thicket. Miss a day of brushing and it’ll turn into a bramble bush.” Always the bramble bush analogy. Obediently, she sighed. “I know,” she murmured with irritation. “Shush, girl. Fetch me your brush.” Sighed she stalked off, up the narrow staircase and to her vanity where the implements of evil were kept. Her room was all red and gold highlights, her single feather bed aligned with the window. Maps of the world and tapestries of distant lands decorated her walls. Sometimes she’d lie awake and imagine herself amongst the Knights of Sylira or walking the skyglass ramparts of Lhavit. Sighing deeply, she collected the horsehair brush by its gilded handle, and reluctantly returned to the kitchen.
“Here,” she offered the implements with some disgust. Unphased by her daughter’s clear distaste for the items, she took them and immediately directed her to the chair in their little nook. Eosi plopped down with a sour face and allowed Layla to begin the painful job, wincing at each pull and stroke. “Gah,” she gasped or “Eeegh,” she squealed when a knot would yank free. “Stop squirming dear,” her Mother’s voice chided distantly. This was a relaxing activity for at least one of them. The grueling task stretched on until Eosi was ready to spring from the chair and run. Finally the steady hand ceased its torture and she did just so, but before she could build momentum her Father blocked her path.
“Not so fast, little bird.” He hid something behind his back. Derailed, she cocked her head to the side in a quizzical fashion. “What have you got there?” She attempted to peek behind him. “Ah, not just yet. Go out the backdoor, let me see if you can guess.” Turning on her heel she ran back from where she came, past her lighthearted Mother and out into the open. Laughing, Layla gazed with adoration at her husband. “Oh Laes.” She said simply, her tone speaking volumes. Approaching, he set the present down on the nearby table, freeing both arms to wind around her slender waist.
“I prefer the girl, with the hair of the earth,” his voice was a seductive purr. Bowing her form into his, she flirted shamelessly back. “Oh yeah?” She replied archly, their lips locking with agonizing slowness. A tiny head popped up in the window, like a lost little robin. “Ewwwwwww!” Eosi cried, giggling once more. Both her parents jumped apart, laughing. “Little spy!” Laes cried in feigned outrage, barreling through the door to grab her up once again.
“Sweetheart,” Layla called with a wry expression. Her husband bounded back in and took the object he’d forgotten in one hand, hastily stealing another kiss. “Love you,” he whispered, taking off again into the small dirt stretch behind the house. It was clear both Father and Daughter were cut from the same cloth. Layla’s heart ached from the love she carried.
“Okay, close your eyes little bird.” Her Father cooed, still concealing her gift. The little girl held her wrinkled lids closed, one peeping behind its lash. “No peeking!” He added, and giggling she obeyed. He produced a little 25lb bow, finely crafted and etched with delicate carvings. “Now open your eyes.”
As they fluttered open, both orbs widened to the size of plates. “OH!” She cried, reaching to pluck the gorgeous little weapon from his grasp. “Ah, ah!” He teased, hoisting it just out of her limited reach. “Patience is a virtue.” Both adults seemed overly fond of adage. It was very trying to the edgy little fire spirit. “Now, take it gently and with both hands.” The thing rested atop both palms, its grip facing out toward her grasp. With surprising gentleness she lifted it, trembling from the excitement. “This is your very first bow,” he announced ceremonially. “Let it be your strength.” The archaic words seemed strangely natural, as if both of them had waited for an eternity to reach that singular moment. Eosi would always remember that; she’d always recall the moment her warrior heart met its ultimate extension.
“Okay, my dear.” Her Father’s postured straightened as he changed hats. Now the instructor, Laes began to teach. “This is a recurve bow,” he began. Nodding she mirrored his tone. “Recurve bow,” she repeated. Grinning, he carried on. “It has four basic parts – the two limbs, the riser and the bowstring.” As he spoke, he indicated each part alongside its namesake. “These upper and lower limbs are identical and both attach here,” he pointed to the one above and the one below, “the riser.” She marveled at its simplicity. “Now hold it like you think you would.”
Eagerly she held it up by the grip, imitating the position she’d seen her Father shoot in, standing in that very same space. “Quite good, but not exactly.” Correcting her here and there, he circled the young prodigy. “You’ll want to stand on the shooting line here, like so. Keep your feet at shoulder width.” Eager to please, she followed his example. “Now, stand as straight as you can with your head level. Like we do when we’re marking your height next to the staircase.” Nodding seriously, she did so. “Not so stiff, birdie.” He grinned. “Relax.”
“Keep your neck still. Turn until you’re looking down the range to your target.” Her eyes lined up with the colorful bullseye. “Good, good. From there you hold your bow up only using your left. You’d pull back with the right, anchor the shot like I do -wherever feels comfortable - and fire!” Blank, she stood for a moment, then lapsed out of the stance. “I don’t have an arrow.” She realized stupidly. Laes chuckled. “That’s the next part. I’ll give you one if you can step by step do what I just taught.” With a determined gleam in her eye, she bobbed her head. “Right.”
The serious little girl took a deep breath and stood stick straight. “Ah ah, relax your shoulders.” Doing so, she turned to look down the narrow line, held her bow shakily up and drew the string back, straining. “Good!” He declared with a hint of pride. “Now here, I’ll how you hold to mount the arrow.”
Laes produced a narrow shaft, fringed with three rows of feather. “This is your arrow. You place it against the rest here,” he stepped in and tapped the arrow rest at the center of the bow. “But release the string first, you goose.” Abruptly she let it go and it lashed back cruelly against the inside of her forearm. “OW OW OW!” She danced in pain. Stifling back laughter, he watched his daughter skip back and forth furiously. “Your left arm was locked, silly. I meant release it go slowly.” Sighing, he waited for his little fit to subside. “Okay.” She whimpered, having another go.
When back in the appropriate posture, he handed her the arrow and she drew it back as he’d shown. It clapped against the wooden surface as she fought to keep it steady. “Breathe. Bend your left elbow a bit, or you’ll hurt yourself again.” Slowly she obliged. “Okay. Now when you think you’ll hit the target – release. But take your time, be focused.”
Hungry for success, she closed her eyes for a moment, just listening to the hammering of her own heart. Shallow breath rang in her ears. Hazel eyes opened, zeroing in on the square target. All at once she let the projectile fly. It fishtailed a bit in the open air and went left of her aim, colliding with a shallow clap against the wooden fence just behind. Frustrated she ground her teeth.
“Eosi!” Her Mother’s voice called from the house. She jumped, clearly unaware Layla had been watching. “Sorry,” she groused in reply. “It didn’t work!” Eosi turned to her Father petulantly.
“It was very good for a first try!” He congratulated. “You hold it too tight, that’s all. We’ll fix that with time. But I’m so proud of you, birdie. Maybe we’ll make an archer of you yet.” Beaming, a smile lit her features. “Really?” He laughed. “Of course. I love you darling.” He spoke softly, moving to embrace the little girl. “I love you too, Daddy.” Tears sprang unwanted to her eyes. The two hugged one another, clinging like the world was set to end. Layla then, was the one to grind her teeth.
Because it wouldn’t, couldn’t last.
The mid afternoon bells announced the end of another day at the Academy, much to the young girl’s relief. It had been the type of day that wore on and on seemingly without end. At several different intervals she sighed and cast a dejected stare out the nearby window. Their lessons had been nothing but review - just practicing letters and discussing their upcoming reports. Eosi was already very good with her letters. The repetition seemed so incredibly pointless. Nothing ever moved fast enough for her, most especially her classes. By the time the children were tested on a particular skill, she’d all but mastered it. Challenge was what stimulated her and these days it was nowhere to be found.
As soon as their gaunt instructor released them, the chaotic little ginger was out the door. Supplies tucked under one arm, she walked briskly back toward her home, eager to discover some more fulfilling activity. Perhaps she’d be allowed down at the weaponsmithy with her Uncle, where he’d show her again how to hammer out steel. The way it glowed white hot, freshly forged… The power to shape metal seemed an unbelievable feat and it fascinated the young Inarta to no end. She liked to perch on his tallest stool like a cat and sit unmoving, eyes transfixed. Since she was never underfoot, they allowed her to do this on a semi-regular basis. Three times a week or more she’d find herself in the company of relatives as opposed to friends.
Of course, a contributing factor was the little girl’s advanced use of language. All the children her age found it pretentious. She fancied herself a little adult, using words like “endowed,” and “inundated.” It lent her an air of conceit that seemed detestable. Many of her peers walked away sniggering behind their hands. At first it had hurt her feelings. No child wanted to be alienated. But at a young age Eosi had concluded she was different, for better or worse. Instead she had chosen to learn from those who actually would abide her presence.
Approaching the two-tiered dwelling that was her home, the girl stopped. She admired how the sun caught the misty white smoke that roiled from the square chimney. Her Mother must be home, cooking something special for their evening meal! Eagerly, she darted across the threshold, some of the books flying forth from their resting place and skittering across the smooth stone floor. Before she could even stoop to collect them, a capable hand reached across her view and grabbed one by the binding. “Eosi,” the voice intoned. “Not so fast.” The tone was firm but clearly amused.
“Daddy!” Cheerful, she leapt into his outstretched arms. Her Father Laes was a lank, powerfully built man whose height could eclipse the sun. They shared the fiery hair of the Inarta, her corkscrew curls an echo of his gentle waves. Even their faces were similar - her petite features an echo of his chiseled ones. He spun her around with a grin, sending his young daughter into a giggle fit. In line with their little routine, he began to sing:
“Oh, I once met a girl with hair of the sun,
She always had a warrior man like me on the run
Then I met another girl with hair deepest black,
Poised as a yowlwing on the attack
Finally I met the girl of my waking dreams,
Ladies with the hair of red are the ones for me!”
Both of them joined together in song, her tiny voice chorusing with his. In the midst of the musical interlude, Laes set her down on the balls of her feet and the two of them began to dance.
“Ohhhhhhh,” they began:
“Give me the girls, the women born of fire,
Whose hearts were forged in Isur by the lilting of lyre
Oh, give me the girls, the women running free,
With eyes like desire and voices of the sea!”
The conclusion sent her into another fit of laughter. “Welcome home.” He said still breathless, ruffling her locks affectionately. “How were your lessons?” Shaking her head, she sighed. “Bo-ring,” she emphasized, suddenly miffed. “Why are the classes always so slow? They’re ponderous,” she said crisply. Her Father shook his head. “Search the whole world over and you’ll never find a more impatient little girl.” Bouncing on her heels suddenly, her head snapped toward the kitchen. “Mum is home?” She asked. He nodded and with that, she sped off, his sighing chuckle another noise in the background.
Her Mother stood waiting, leaning against the smooth countertop. She was a curvy woman, with close-cropped chestnut hair and eyes as tranquil as the sea. A feline grin was painted across her slender face and eagerly the little girl ran to her embrace. Layla sighed deeply and rested her chin atop the girl’s wild tresses. “Have you brushed your hair today?” She asked with parental concern. “Mooooooom,” Eosi whined, clearly having ignored her daily rituals. Every time her Mother would see her, her hands seemingly itched toward a comb. It was a painful process that usually took up to a quarter bell as her deft fingers tore the knots from her skull. “I hate brushing my hair!” Disengaging, she stamped her foot in indignation.
“Now Eosi,” she said in a tone that left no room for argument. “Your hair is like a thicket. Miss a day of brushing and it’ll turn into a bramble bush.” Always the bramble bush analogy. Obediently, she sighed. “I know,” she murmured with irritation. “Shush, girl. Fetch me your brush.” Sighed she stalked off, up the narrow staircase and to her vanity where the implements of evil were kept. Her room was all red and gold highlights, her single feather bed aligned with the window. Maps of the world and tapestries of distant lands decorated her walls. Sometimes she’d lie awake and imagine herself amongst the Knights of Sylira or walking the skyglass ramparts of Lhavit. Sighing deeply, she collected the horsehair brush by its gilded handle, and reluctantly returned to the kitchen.
“Here,” she offered the implements with some disgust. Unphased by her daughter’s clear distaste for the items, she took them and immediately directed her to the chair in their little nook. Eosi plopped down with a sour face and allowed Layla to begin the painful job, wincing at each pull and stroke. “Gah,” she gasped or “Eeegh,” she squealed when a knot would yank free. “Stop squirming dear,” her Mother’s voice chided distantly. This was a relaxing activity for at least one of them. The grueling task stretched on until Eosi was ready to spring from the chair and run. Finally the steady hand ceased its torture and she did just so, but before she could build momentum her Father blocked her path.
“Not so fast, little bird.” He hid something behind his back. Derailed, she cocked her head to the side in a quizzical fashion. “What have you got there?” She attempted to peek behind him. “Ah, not just yet. Go out the backdoor, let me see if you can guess.” Turning on her heel she ran back from where she came, past her lighthearted Mother and out into the open. Laughing, Layla gazed with adoration at her husband. “Oh Laes.” She said simply, her tone speaking volumes. Approaching, he set the present down on the nearby table, freeing both arms to wind around her slender waist.
“I prefer the girl, with the hair of the earth,” his voice was a seductive purr. Bowing her form into his, she flirted shamelessly back. “Oh yeah?” She replied archly, their lips locking with agonizing slowness. A tiny head popped up in the window, like a lost little robin. “Ewwwwwww!” Eosi cried, giggling once more. Both her parents jumped apart, laughing. “Little spy!” Laes cried in feigned outrage, barreling through the door to grab her up once again.
“Sweetheart,” Layla called with a wry expression. Her husband bounded back in and took the object he’d forgotten in one hand, hastily stealing another kiss. “Love you,” he whispered, taking off again into the small dirt stretch behind the house. It was clear both Father and Daughter were cut from the same cloth. Layla’s heart ached from the love she carried.
“Okay, close your eyes little bird.” Her Father cooed, still concealing her gift. The little girl held her wrinkled lids closed, one peeping behind its lash. “No peeking!” He added, and giggling she obeyed. He produced a little 25lb bow, finely crafted and etched with delicate carvings. “Now open your eyes.”
As they fluttered open, both orbs widened to the size of plates. “OH!” She cried, reaching to pluck the gorgeous little weapon from his grasp. “Ah, ah!” He teased, hoisting it just out of her limited reach. “Patience is a virtue.” Both adults seemed overly fond of adage. It was very trying to the edgy little fire spirit. “Now, take it gently and with both hands.” The thing rested atop both palms, its grip facing out toward her grasp. With surprising gentleness she lifted it, trembling from the excitement. “This is your very first bow,” he announced ceremonially. “Let it be your strength.” The archaic words seemed strangely natural, as if both of them had waited for an eternity to reach that singular moment. Eosi would always remember that; she’d always recall the moment her warrior heart met its ultimate extension.
“Okay, my dear.” Her Father’s postured straightened as he changed hats. Now the instructor, Laes began to teach. “This is a recurve bow,” he began. Nodding she mirrored his tone. “Recurve bow,” she repeated. Grinning, he carried on. “It has four basic parts – the two limbs, the riser and the bowstring.” As he spoke, he indicated each part alongside its namesake. “These upper and lower limbs are identical and both attach here,” he pointed to the one above and the one below, “the riser.” She marveled at its simplicity. “Now hold it like you think you would.”
Eagerly she held it up by the grip, imitating the position she’d seen her Father shoot in, standing in that very same space. “Quite good, but not exactly.” Correcting her here and there, he circled the young prodigy. “You’ll want to stand on the shooting line here, like so. Keep your feet at shoulder width.” Eager to please, she followed his example. “Now, stand as straight as you can with your head level. Like we do when we’re marking your height next to the staircase.” Nodding seriously, she did so. “Not so stiff, birdie.” He grinned. “Relax.”
“Keep your neck still. Turn until you’re looking down the range to your target.” Her eyes lined up with the colorful bullseye. “Good, good. From there you hold your bow up only using your left. You’d pull back with the right, anchor the shot like I do -wherever feels comfortable - and fire!” Blank, she stood for a moment, then lapsed out of the stance. “I don’t have an arrow.” She realized stupidly. Laes chuckled. “That’s the next part. I’ll give you one if you can step by step do what I just taught.” With a determined gleam in her eye, she bobbed her head. “Right.”
The serious little girl took a deep breath and stood stick straight. “Ah ah, relax your shoulders.” Doing so, she turned to look down the narrow line, held her bow shakily up and drew the string back, straining. “Good!” He declared with a hint of pride. “Now here, I’ll how you hold to mount the arrow.”
Laes produced a narrow shaft, fringed with three rows of feather. “This is your arrow. You place it against the rest here,” he stepped in and tapped the arrow rest at the center of the bow. “But release the string first, you goose.” Abruptly she let it go and it lashed back cruelly against the inside of her forearm. “OW OW OW!” She danced in pain. Stifling back laughter, he watched his daughter skip back and forth furiously. “Your left arm was locked, silly. I meant release it go slowly.” Sighing, he waited for his little fit to subside. “Okay.” She whimpered, having another go.
When back in the appropriate posture, he handed her the arrow and she drew it back as he’d shown. It clapped against the wooden surface as she fought to keep it steady. “Breathe. Bend your left elbow a bit, or you’ll hurt yourself again.” Slowly she obliged. “Okay. Now when you think you’ll hit the target – release. But take your time, be focused.”
Hungry for success, she closed her eyes for a moment, just listening to the hammering of her own heart. Shallow breath rang in her ears. Hazel eyes opened, zeroing in on the square target. All at once she let the projectile fly. It fishtailed a bit in the open air and went left of her aim, colliding with a shallow clap against the wooden fence just behind. Frustrated she ground her teeth.
“Eosi!” Her Mother’s voice called from the house. She jumped, clearly unaware Layla had been watching. “Sorry,” she groused in reply. “It didn’t work!” Eosi turned to her Father petulantly.
“It was very good for a first try!” He congratulated. “You hold it too tight, that’s all. We’ll fix that with time. But I’m so proud of you, birdie. Maybe we’ll make an archer of you yet.” Beaming, a smile lit her features. “Really?” He laughed. “Of course. I love you darling.” He spoke softly, moving to embrace the little girl. “I love you too, Daddy.” Tears sprang unwanted to her eyes. The two hugged one another, clinging like the world was set to end. Layla then, was the one to grind her teeth.
Because it wouldn’t, couldn’t last.
