1st of Spring, 514 AV - Early morning.
The Nettle District.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. The feeling of knowing that your breath is stale and your tongue is dryly wetting lips that are only getting coarser by the bell. Sharp exhalations. Erratic movements. Nervous twitching.
Sigrun woke up from her shrunken apartment at the Traveler's Row, her beating heart making itself known to her. She could feel her blood brushing its warmth along the underside of her skin. She embraced herself. It was the first day of Spring.
After the night of the 31st of Winter she vowed she would find a way to leave, Syliras, and on the 32nd, she almost did. Now, on the morning of a new year, she sat still upon her rough-spun bedsheets, still living inside the citadel. Pathetic.
She watched the sunlight spill over her creased sheets and crumpled nightclothes, meekly, as it was clearly much brighter outside than it was inside. The floorboards from the ceiling creaked, it was likely the man who now currently stays at the room Sigrun had once stayed at. She had only left for two days when a rush of customers coming from all around came to check in, and she had to reduce herself to a much simpler apartment. Not that she cared.
She had spent the remainder of Winter mulling about in her apartment alone, staring at the sky and the snow in the face, disregarding the cold and its affect on her bones. She paid little attention to her shivers or her pangs of hunger, not until she began to feel herself falling ill.
A life of squalor, she repeatedly called it. Nobody knows how hard she tried a few nights ago to get out of bed and actually do something with herself. She had a bit of a bath with a sponge, soap, and water, had a bite to eat and little drink at a tavern, and even managed a simple stroll down the marketplace. She had almost bought a pot. It was a success story for her, at the very least.
Today demanded an even bigger success story, however, and it dragged Sigrun to her clean her boots and wear her better clothing. She needed a job if she wanted to leave Syliras, and if anything, she couldn't go back to Atta.
The young blonde blushed furiously in embarrassment as she rubbed away dried grass, dirt, and dust from her faithful leather shoes. She had left her job at the Flower Stand without even saying goodbye. Shame filled the pit of her stomach with an acid that she mistook for an emotion, rather than an empty belly in need of food.
She slipped on a dress and a corset and made her way to the door with nothing but her backpack of necessities and her pouch of Mizas. For the first time in a long time, she was leaving home without her sword. It was a trip to the stables, after all, and it would be horrible of her to scare the horses with a blade.
Sigrun glided down the cobblestone a little faster than she normally did. The few who knew her face saw the uncharacteristic determination in her step, when for the past few days she had been walking like a lethargic hospice patient. The young blonde noticed none of these glances, but at the same time, she met all of them with her own levelled gaze.
Nothing is wrong, she thought. I am on my way to see Julien.
Julien. If there were ever a physical manifestation for calm, it would be that Zavian. The horse was the right mix of zest and sweetness, and Sigrun fell in love with the young stallion quite quickly for it. A burst of fresh air for her otherwise insipid life, she'd describe. She found it a bit of a burden for both her and Serena over at the stables that she would keep him there, albeit she was paying for it. To have more of a purpose for visiting the area would be preferable.
Sigrun felt a pang hit her chest as her heart skipped a beat. She was about to pass The Flower Stand.
Shykes. She watched the other stalls for something to focus on. Pots, bottles of strange liquids, carpets, and random pieces of clothing. Nothing was worth staring at. She pushed herself to the other side of the heavy crowd, hoping to avoid being sighted altogether. A bit of a push here, a bit of a shove there--
"Sigrun!"
No other person could have owned that voice. The young woman halted in her footsteps, frozen in a moment that brought a chill to her spine. A man bumped her towards the owner of the voice, swearing afterwards and mumbling that she should watch where she was standing. Sigrun turned around and, instead of coming face to face with a concerned look or a frown, as she had expected, she was met with a warm smile.
"Oh, come here!"
She didn't have time to take it in. Atta Sabot wrapped her aged arms around the young blonde without a moment's hesitation. She was strong for her age, probably due to all the flower picking. Sigrun slowly brought her arms up to embrace her. A stinging sensation hit the sides of her eyes. Her face began to burn.
"How have you been? Where have you been? You've been gone for days!"
Atta let her go, but kept her hands on the woman's shoulders. Sigrun smiled weakly. It had been a lot more than just days.
"Around," she managed shyly. Her eyes began to dampen.
"Are you coming back for good, then?" Atta released her and swiftly went behind the stall, "I haven't got a soul working for me at the moment, I could use the help."
Atta chuckled. Sigrun raised an eyebrow at her and smirked, but could not bring herself to speak. Slowly, she made her way behind the stall, and struggled not to let the familiarity wring in her tears. Atta courteously avoided watching her eyes as she inspected a delivery list on the worktable. Most of the items had already been marked with a check. Sigrun grinned, watching the neatly written text on the smooth parchment. Atta's handwriting had always been so charming.
"I'm sorry."
"Well, you did always say that you may not stay," Atta quipped, turning away from her list to face the young woman.
"But I should've said something," Sigrun quickly responded with a bite of her lip. A tear escaped her left eye. Two more emerged from the right.
Atta maintained a happy smile as she left the worktable and came over to give the young blonde another hug. Sigrun cried quietly.
"I'm so sorry. I should've said something."
"It's alright, I understand," the old woman said patted the young woman's back, rubbing circles around her shoulder blades. Sigrun immediately felt calmer.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," the young woman complained, "it's like I'm fine one day, and then I'm not on the next!"
"I could be fine for days, for seasons, or just- not alright for seasons, I don' t know. What is going on with me. I don't know. I'm sorry I left, I don't know-"
"It's alright, really- hey, look at me-" Atta pulled away for a moment to look into the girl's eyes, "you'll be fine, alright?"
"But I don't-" the young blonde sniffled and rubbed her swelling eyelids, "I don't feel fine."
"You'll be fine!" Atta laughed, patting the girl on the back. She scoured through the front of the stall, picked up a long-stemmed red poppy, and handed it to her.
"Remember?" the old woman grinned. The creases on her forehead and cheeks had deepened slightly, and so had her crow's feet. Age was a terrifying truth. Sigrun watched her faded irises carefully. Of course she remembered.
The first time the young blonde had met Atta, she was at the edge of the stall tending to the flowers, speaking to a customer, simply doing what she had always done best. When she approached, the old woman's first offering was a little poppy flower, red and long-stemmed, like the one she now held in her hands once more.
Sigrun grinned.
"I gave that to you for a reason," Atta wagged a finger at her, "and that's because I knew you needed it. And you still do."
Sigrun looked at her leather-clad feet, embarrassed.
"You're not alone, Sigrun."
The young woman looked up to see Atta writing something in an old journal. The old woman fastened the clasp that held the worn thing together, and casually handed it to the blonde.
"Here," she said with a grin. Sigrun's eyes widened. She shook her head and gently pushed the book away. Atta shook it in front of her face.
"Do whatever you want with it!" she shoved it swiftly enough towards the blonde's torso that the latter instinctively took it with both hands, "it's an old blank book that I was supposed to use as a ledger, but you know how I like my parchment better."
"Throw it around, mess with the cover, tear off a couple pages, whatever you want. Just promise me-"
Atta went as far as possible from the girl, chuckling. Sigrun pouted.
"That you'll write in it."
"What for?" the young woman held the book tightly. She struggled a bit with the clasp on the front, but gave up before managing to pry it open.
"It'll help you recover, trust me," Atta began tending to the flowers in front of the stall, sprinkling waterer over the petals and the soil, "write everything you feel, everything you see that takes your interests. Just write."
Sigrun stared at the blank wooden cover. The journal had seemingly been made in a rush. The edges of the wooden planks that were bound to make the cover had many chips, scratches, and gashes, although the center of each piece was meticulously smoothened out to the best of the worker's ability. The dark leather that held the spine together was of decent quality, and although it held the journal together quite well, it had been cut rather poorly. Sigrun ran her hands along the velvety surface of the leather spin, and then across the leather strip attached to the metal clasps along the front. A black cloth ribbon, its slightly fraying ends tied to form a ribbon, sprouted from the middle of the mound of badly cut, dog-eared, and slightly damaged parchment paper within the journal. Every piece of paper seem to stick out like the jagged teeth of a predator.
But Sigrun immediately loved it. Because it was from Atta. Because it would help her.
"Thank you," she finally spoke after a good few moments of silence, looking up from the journal in her hands to watch Atta picking out a few colourful bunches of flowers.
"It was no problem at all, dear," Atta responded warmly as she approached the back of the stall, "I'd been meaning to give that too you since you came to work for me, anyway."
Sigrun beamed from ear to ear. Giddily, she fumbled once more with the journal's clasps, but stopped short and looked at Atta when she spoke once more.
"Would you give me a hand with this bouquet while you're here, then? Just one," the old woman smiled sweetly.
One smile, one smile, and Sigrun was immediately reminded of why she saw so much of her mother in Atta. She had so much of her warmth and optimism-- her zest for life.
The Nettle District.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. The feeling of knowing that your breath is stale and your tongue is dryly wetting lips that are only getting coarser by the bell. Sharp exhalations. Erratic movements. Nervous twitching.
Sigrun woke up from her shrunken apartment at the Traveler's Row, her beating heart making itself known to her. She could feel her blood brushing its warmth along the underside of her skin. She embraced herself. It was the first day of Spring.
After the night of the 31st of Winter she vowed she would find a way to leave, Syliras, and on the 32nd, she almost did. Now, on the morning of a new year, she sat still upon her rough-spun bedsheets, still living inside the citadel. Pathetic.
She watched the sunlight spill over her creased sheets and crumpled nightclothes, meekly, as it was clearly much brighter outside than it was inside. The floorboards from the ceiling creaked, it was likely the man who now currently stays at the room Sigrun had once stayed at. She had only left for two days when a rush of customers coming from all around came to check in, and she had to reduce herself to a much simpler apartment. Not that she cared.
She had spent the remainder of Winter mulling about in her apartment alone, staring at the sky and the snow in the face, disregarding the cold and its affect on her bones. She paid little attention to her shivers or her pangs of hunger, not until she began to feel herself falling ill.
A life of squalor, she repeatedly called it. Nobody knows how hard she tried a few nights ago to get out of bed and actually do something with herself. She had a bit of a bath with a sponge, soap, and water, had a bite to eat and little drink at a tavern, and even managed a simple stroll down the marketplace. She had almost bought a pot. It was a success story for her, at the very least.
Today demanded an even bigger success story, however, and it dragged Sigrun to her clean her boots and wear her better clothing. She needed a job if she wanted to leave Syliras, and if anything, she couldn't go back to Atta.
The young blonde blushed furiously in embarrassment as she rubbed away dried grass, dirt, and dust from her faithful leather shoes. She had left her job at the Flower Stand without even saying goodbye. Shame filled the pit of her stomach with an acid that she mistook for an emotion, rather than an empty belly in need of food.
She slipped on a dress and a corset and made her way to the door with nothing but her backpack of necessities and her pouch of Mizas. For the first time in a long time, she was leaving home without her sword. It was a trip to the stables, after all, and it would be horrible of her to scare the horses with a blade.
Sigrun glided down the cobblestone a little faster than she normally did. The few who knew her face saw the uncharacteristic determination in her step, when for the past few days she had been walking like a lethargic hospice patient. The young blonde noticed none of these glances, but at the same time, she met all of them with her own levelled gaze.
Nothing is wrong, she thought. I am on my way to see Julien.
Julien. If there were ever a physical manifestation for calm, it would be that Zavian. The horse was the right mix of zest and sweetness, and Sigrun fell in love with the young stallion quite quickly for it. A burst of fresh air for her otherwise insipid life, she'd describe. She found it a bit of a burden for both her and Serena over at the stables that she would keep him there, albeit she was paying for it. To have more of a purpose for visiting the area would be preferable.
Sigrun felt a pang hit her chest as her heart skipped a beat. She was about to pass The Flower Stand.
Shykes. She watched the other stalls for something to focus on. Pots, bottles of strange liquids, carpets, and random pieces of clothing. Nothing was worth staring at. She pushed herself to the other side of the heavy crowd, hoping to avoid being sighted altogether. A bit of a push here, a bit of a shove there--
"Sigrun!"
No other person could have owned that voice. The young woman halted in her footsteps, frozen in a moment that brought a chill to her spine. A man bumped her towards the owner of the voice, swearing afterwards and mumbling that she should watch where she was standing. Sigrun turned around and, instead of coming face to face with a concerned look or a frown, as she had expected, she was met with a warm smile.
"Oh, come here!"
She didn't have time to take it in. Atta Sabot wrapped her aged arms around the young blonde without a moment's hesitation. She was strong for her age, probably due to all the flower picking. Sigrun slowly brought her arms up to embrace her. A stinging sensation hit the sides of her eyes. Her face began to burn.
"How have you been? Where have you been? You've been gone for days!"
Atta let her go, but kept her hands on the woman's shoulders. Sigrun smiled weakly. It had been a lot more than just days.
"Around," she managed shyly. Her eyes began to dampen.
"Are you coming back for good, then?" Atta released her and swiftly went behind the stall, "I haven't got a soul working for me at the moment, I could use the help."
Atta chuckled. Sigrun raised an eyebrow at her and smirked, but could not bring herself to speak. Slowly, she made her way behind the stall, and struggled not to let the familiarity wring in her tears. Atta courteously avoided watching her eyes as she inspected a delivery list on the worktable. Most of the items had already been marked with a check. Sigrun grinned, watching the neatly written text on the smooth parchment. Atta's handwriting had always been so charming.
"I'm sorry."
"Well, you did always say that you may not stay," Atta quipped, turning away from her list to face the young woman.
"But I should've said something," Sigrun quickly responded with a bite of her lip. A tear escaped her left eye. Two more emerged from the right.
Atta maintained a happy smile as she left the worktable and came over to give the young blonde another hug. Sigrun cried quietly.
"I'm so sorry. I should've said something."
"It's alright, I understand," the old woman said patted the young woman's back, rubbing circles around her shoulder blades. Sigrun immediately felt calmer.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," the young woman complained, "it's like I'm fine one day, and then I'm not on the next!"
"I could be fine for days, for seasons, or just- not alright for seasons, I don' t know. What is going on with me. I don't know. I'm sorry I left, I don't know-"
"It's alright, really- hey, look at me-" Atta pulled away for a moment to look into the girl's eyes, "you'll be fine, alright?"
"But I don't-" the young blonde sniffled and rubbed her swelling eyelids, "I don't feel fine."
"You'll be fine!" Atta laughed, patting the girl on the back. She scoured through the front of the stall, picked up a long-stemmed red poppy, and handed it to her.
"Remember?" the old woman grinned. The creases on her forehead and cheeks had deepened slightly, and so had her crow's feet. Age was a terrifying truth. Sigrun watched her faded irises carefully. Of course she remembered.
The first time the young blonde had met Atta, she was at the edge of the stall tending to the flowers, speaking to a customer, simply doing what she had always done best. When she approached, the old woman's first offering was a little poppy flower, red and long-stemmed, like the one she now held in her hands once more.
Sigrun grinned.
"I gave that to you for a reason," Atta wagged a finger at her, "and that's because I knew you needed it. And you still do."
Sigrun looked at her leather-clad feet, embarrassed.
"You're not alone, Sigrun."
The young woman looked up to see Atta writing something in an old journal. The old woman fastened the clasp that held the worn thing together, and casually handed it to the blonde.
"Here," she said with a grin. Sigrun's eyes widened. She shook her head and gently pushed the book away. Atta shook it in front of her face.
"Do whatever you want with it!" she shoved it swiftly enough towards the blonde's torso that the latter instinctively took it with both hands, "it's an old blank book that I was supposed to use as a ledger, but you know how I like my parchment better."
"Throw it around, mess with the cover, tear off a couple pages, whatever you want. Just promise me-"
Atta went as far as possible from the girl, chuckling. Sigrun pouted.
"That you'll write in it."
"What for?" the young woman held the book tightly. She struggled a bit with the clasp on the front, but gave up before managing to pry it open.
"It'll help you recover, trust me," Atta began tending to the flowers in front of the stall, sprinkling waterer over the petals and the soil, "write everything you feel, everything you see that takes your interests. Just write."
Sigrun stared at the blank wooden cover. The journal had seemingly been made in a rush. The edges of the wooden planks that were bound to make the cover had many chips, scratches, and gashes, although the center of each piece was meticulously smoothened out to the best of the worker's ability. The dark leather that held the spine together was of decent quality, and although it held the journal together quite well, it had been cut rather poorly. Sigrun ran her hands along the velvety surface of the leather spin, and then across the leather strip attached to the metal clasps along the front. A black cloth ribbon, its slightly fraying ends tied to form a ribbon, sprouted from the middle of the mound of badly cut, dog-eared, and slightly damaged parchment paper within the journal. Every piece of paper seem to stick out like the jagged teeth of a predator.
But Sigrun immediately loved it. Because it was from Atta. Because it would help her.
"Thank you," she finally spoke after a good few moments of silence, looking up from the journal in her hands to watch Atta picking out a few colourful bunches of flowers.
"It was no problem at all, dear," Atta responded warmly as she approached the back of the stall, "I'd been meaning to give that too you since you came to work for me, anyway."
Sigrun beamed from ear to ear. Giddily, she fumbled once more with the journal's clasps, but stopped short and looked at Atta when she spoke once more.
"Would you give me a hand with this bouquet while you're here, then? Just one," the old woman smiled sweetly.
One smile, one smile, and Sigrun was immediately reminded of why she saw so much of her mother in Atta. She had so much of her warmth and optimism-- her zest for life.
I hope she found her conviction in life. Enjoy your grades!.
