by Jack Benefort on June 18th, 2013, 3:12 pm
The sun shone beautifully on Zeltiva as it rose high into the sky, it's presence in the cloudless blue sky seemingly in spite of the cold weather. But the cold had never been enough to stop this busy city from working. Men and women went to and fro everywhere in the city, running their many various errands. Shouts of laughter, men yelling commands to their subordinates, the loud creaking of ships as they moved in and out of port, all painted the day. Across the whole city, nothing seemed to ever stop moving. Cargo was moved from one ship to another, or from shop to ship, gold exchanged hands, stories were shared, students moved about like ants through the university. The city was alive. And just as the many adults had much to tend to, the children of this vibrant city had concerns of their own as well, namely a great game of tag that currently spanned quite a large area near the Old quarter. The children had considered it a safer area to play, as they didn't figure university students would have quite as much wrath in an accident as a dockworker. Watching them play was not unlike watching a flock of small birds hovering about in the air, moving in one fluid mass of constant unified motion, as the title of 'it' changed hands from one moment to the next. Their laughter and cries of surprise and joy were a wonderful cacophony to all who heard them, a reminder that life could be enjoyed and loved even in the harsh world of Mizahar.
A wonderful cacophony to all but one unlikely ear. A few houses down, a young boy, newly turned 11, practiced with a wooden short sword in a small training room. He stood there, bathed in the sunlight pouring through one large window into the small room. There was a rack that held several wooden weapons like the one he held now, and in the center of the room was a tall wooden post, mottled with small indentations that, together with his very calloused hands, told the story of the boys first year of sword practice. He stood there, sweating slightly, though not to heavily, as he had not been practicing for long yet that day. He wore simple clothes for training- brown pants, some simple leather sandals, and a white shirt, tied around his waist with a thin black rope. His hair was short enough that it didn't need much grooming, and was a deep hue of brown. He took a few more swings at the post, but couldn't muster the energy to continue. He wasn't tired- far from it. It simply exceeded the constitution of an 11 year old boy to hear the sounds of his peers at play and not try to join in.
He silently returned his wooden sword to its place on the weapon rack, and turned around in preparation for spying on his father. There were two doors out of the training room. One led into the main entrance room of the home, and the other led into father's study. He knew from practice that, if timed properly, he could be down the hallway and out the door in less than fifteen seconds. He also knew from practice- particularly from failure, that it was always necessary to check on father before attempting such a feat. Tiptoeing to the study entrance, Jack peeked around the corner just enough to barely get a view of father. The study was the largest room in the house- easily twice, maybe three times the size of the training room. Its walls were lined with bookshelves, covered in books that, Jack assumed, probably taught about everything. After all, there couldn't be so much to know that you would need many more books than that. Sitting in the center of this sea of books was a small desk, covered in several stacks of books, some stationery, and a candle.
Behind that desk sat an elderly man, boasting as much white hair as he boasted knowledge and wisdom. His face was wrinkled and he bore a constant furrowed brow, the product of spending his youth in books and debate, saving little time for personal pleasures. The hair on his head had begun to wither and fade away, but his unkempt, scholarly lifestyle was very evident when one gazed upon his beard, which seemed to flow endlessly from his chin, and was one of the most legendary among those who enjoyed using them as sources of levity and fellowship. But more importantly than that, especially to Jack at this moment, was the fact that he had, as was his habit in old age, fallen asleep at his desk. Seizing the opportunity, Jack made a bee-line for the door, for freedom.
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Jack had tried to play with the other children but found that almost as soon as he had arrived, they had gained duties to attend to. Some had to help their fathers move merchandise, others suddenly were called home by their mothers. It was not something Jack was unaccustomed to, though. He was separate from the rest of the children. They played and worked, he trained and studied, it was only natural that they wouldn't be inclined to play. It was still sad though. To curb his sadness, Jack began to walk around the edges of the city, looking out into the hills and forests, observing things that weren't made and run by people who could hurt him. Then he saw a woman, sitting on a rock, behind a hill he was walking around. At first he had no interest in going near her, still being in a mood that disinclined him towards interaction with others. But there was something inexplicable about her that calmed him. She seemed at peace, almost in a divine sense. And it gave him peace too. He wasn't sure what to do at that point, wanting to speak to this woman but not knowing if he should, would he simply be shooed away as many older people did to him? Like the other children did? He walked closer to her, but hesitated to move any closer than ten or so feet away.
Last edited by
Jack Benefort on July 24th, 2013, 1:38 pm, edited 1 time in total.
