513 AV, 11th of Red Stone
Yellow Stone season, and rains and mistrals came early. Climat was colder here, and something had to be done about the warmer clothing before those rains and winds would take her by the breath. A cold note of panic crept upon her each time she remembered the raucous, desperate choking cough in the slums of the streets. Those were the goners, her mother used to say. They had nothing - no money for treatment, no money to cover themselves, no wits to steal enough and not get caught. Poor goners, her mother used to say, and then she usually smiled and added something encouraging. They two did get by much better than the goners. Free like the wind. Petching cold wind.
Her mother was gone for almost ten years now. She left in the late Green Stone season, somewhere between the eighty fourth and the ninetieth - days on that run were a blur. Except from her, Haasha never had any people she wouldn't be wary talking to. She knew, why. People were dangerous. Some tried to kill her when they saw her. Some tried to take things (which, strictly speaking, didn't belong to her, but it was of no concern to them) from her. People didn't like her. But sometimes, she felt an ache deep inside her ribcage. It felt like a stone tied to her heart and to the insides of her neck, heavily pulling those down to the guts, and it made her wish for strange things. Then she felt very much miserable, but after some time, the feeling subsided. Maybe, it was that wish to see a friendly face which people experienced, loneliness. Maybe, it was her body fighting some goners' disease. She learned early and, she believed, quite well - noone could be trusted, and nothing should be asked for. Maybe it was the breaking of those rules that got her mother killed. The half-blood didn't know.
A cold gust made her shiver, and she moved closer to the camp fire - neatly placed inside a circle of stones, just on the edge of a small grove.
"Dz-zaush-h, I need warmer stuff." she hissed through her teeth, and her own voice was somehow a comfort to the pang of that weird pain in the chest and the throat. No, not the goners' disease yet. "Or I won't survive the winter."
Not surviving the winter was never in her plans. Not surviving wasn't even suggested in general.
She rubbed her shoulders above the fabric of th clothes, fiercely, and stretched her hands out to the fire. She was sitting with her legs tucked under herself, and it made them fall asleep slightly, but it was better than freezing them off. Now and then, she would, with a small groan, stretch them to warm her feet against the fire and rub the calfs, otherwise remaining a small hunched figure in the dirtiest white clothing, too light for the season, head covered and pale face visually a livelier tone from the flame light.
It was three days from Syliras. The next passage would start at dawn, but it was too cold to sleep. She could turn her back to the fire and hope that she wouldn't get burnt... she probably would. Haasha felt her lids dropping by themselves.
Some sound did keep her awake, though. Footsteps which were too close, noticed when she dove out of the tired drowsiness and momentarily setting her in a state of alarm - on her feet, staggering from her left foot fallen asleep, hand on her mother's dagger, a simple rough sheath falling into the grass. She took several steps back, only luck helping her avoid running into an unearthed root, and stared. Her other hand shifted towards the tree trunk, as if she considered climbing it in case of danger, even though means and possible speed of doing so were far from evaluated.
She stared. In complete silence, with lightly widened eyes, almost absolutely still.[/size]
Yellow Stone season, and rains and mistrals came early. Climat was colder here, and something had to be done about the warmer clothing before those rains and winds would take her by the breath. A cold note of panic crept upon her each time she remembered the raucous, desperate choking cough in the slums of the streets. Those were the goners, her mother used to say. They had nothing - no money for treatment, no money to cover themselves, no wits to steal enough and not get caught. Poor goners, her mother used to say, and then she usually smiled and added something encouraging. They two did get by much better than the goners. Free like the wind. Petching cold wind.
Her mother was gone for almost ten years now. She left in the late Green Stone season, somewhere between the eighty fourth and the ninetieth - days on that run were a blur. Except from her, Haasha never had any people she wouldn't be wary talking to. She knew, why. People were dangerous. Some tried to kill her when they saw her. Some tried to take things (which, strictly speaking, didn't belong to her, but it was of no concern to them) from her. People didn't like her. But sometimes, she felt an ache deep inside her ribcage. It felt like a stone tied to her heart and to the insides of her neck, heavily pulling those down to the guts, and it made her wish for strange things. Then she felt very much miserable, but after some time, the feeling subsided. Maybe, it was that wish to see a friendly face which people experienced, loneliness. Maybe, it was her body fighting some goners' disease. She learned early and, she believed, quite well - noone could be trusted, and nothing should be asked for. Maybe it was the breaking of those rules that got her mother killed. The half-blood didn't know.
A cold gust made her shiver, and she moved closer to the camp fire - neatly placed inside a circle of stones, just on the edge of a small grove.
"Dz-zaush-h, I need warmer stuff." she hissed through her teeth, and her own voice was somehow a comfort to the pang of that weird pain in the chest and the throat. No, not the goners' disease yet. "Or I won't survive the winter."
Not surviving the winter was never in her plans. Not surviving wasn't even suggested in general.
She rubbed her shoulders above the fabric of th clothes, fiercely, and stretched her hands out to the fire. She was sitting with her legs tucked under herself, and it made them fall asleep slightly, but it was better than freezing them off. Now and then, she would, with a small groan, stretch them to warm her feet against the fire and rub the calfs, otherwise remaining a small hunched figure in the dirtiest white clothing, too light for the season, head covered and pale face visually a livelier tone from the flame light.
It was three days from Syliras. The next passage would start at dawn, but it was too cold to sleep. She could turn her back to the fire and hope that she wouldn't get burnt... she probably would. Haasha felt her lids dropping by themselves.
Some sound did keep her awake, though. Footsteps which were too close, noticed when she dove out of the tired drowsiness and momentarily setting her in a state of alarm - on her feet, staggering from her left foot fallen asleep, hand on her mother's dagger, a simple rough sheath falling into the grass. She took several steps back, only luck helping her avoid running into an unearthed root, and stared. Her other hand shifted towards the tree trunk, as if she considered climbing it in case of danger, even though means and possible speed of doing so were far from evaluated.
She stared. In complete silence, with lightly widened eyes, almost absolutely still.[/size]