4 Spring 514 AV
11th Bell
Wanda had passed by the Windmount district and innumerable amount of times in her relatively short life, yet she knew little about it besides the fact that it absolutely reeked of horses. Presumably other wildlife too, but most notably horses.
Of course, Wanda never had much need for horses before now. Animals had never been her forte to begin with, no matter how much she'd tried. Oh, she got on with kelvics just fine, probably because there was actually a means to communicate with them. Language was a wonderful thing, but only if Wanda knew it. And she did not know how to communicate with animals.
Nevertheless, Wanda found that she was enjoying herself as she flounced through the fields. It didn't actually stink much worse than the rest of the city, after all, and the field was big enough that it wasn't all conglomerated in one dense area. A warm breeze had somehow wriggled its way over the citadel walls and Syna cast a warm glow on Wanda's skin.
It was peaceful as the blonde teen wound her way to the stables, a solid-looking brick building that wasn't ugly but did jut out sharply against the rest of the landscape.
As she walked, her mind drifted to the conversation she'd had with the leader of the to-be caravan. Was is proper to refer to him as the leader? Hadn't he -- Mr. Page -- referred to himself as such? Wanda couldn't remember, and it didn't matter. Instead, she focused on the important bits of things he'd said. Nyka was to the North and East. Sixty or seventy days. What would the weather be like there? What kinds of clothes would she need to buy? These were the kinds of questions she had needed to ask yesterday, and Wanda gave herself a mental kick for not doing so.
This whole deal -- it was just so overwhelming. How many days had it been? Not even fifteen. Not even fifteen days since her mother had passed away, and she felt as if those last words were haunting her. She kept the journal under her pillow, and most nights it felt as if the book, the page, the ink was burning a hole in the fabric. It was heavy as it weighed on her mind, and now she understood why the miners always seemed a little agitated, lugging around burdens every day.
Those were physical burdens though, Wanda noted. The miners could put them down and make their way down to the Rearing Stallion to wash their aches in ale at the end of the day. Theoretically, Wanda could wash her worries away like that too, but he the very task her mother had loaded her with was the same thing that kept Wanda from it.
She never thought that the idea of simply living would bother her so much, but it did. It made her so extremely self-conscious about everything she did. Somehow, that one little notion had wound its way into everything she did.
11th Bell
Wanda had passed by the Windmount district and innumerable amount of times in her relatively short life, yet she knew little about it besides the fact that it absolutely reeked of horses. Presumably other wildlife too, but most notably horses.
Of course, Wanda never had much need for horses before now. Animals had never been her forte to begin with, no matter how much she'd tried. Oh, she got on with kelvics just fine, probably because there was actually a means to communicate with them. Language was a wonderful thing, but only if Wanda knew it. And she did not know how to communicate with animals.
Nevertheless, Wanda found that she was enjoying herself as she flounced through the fields. It didn't actually stink much worse than the rest of the city, after all, and the field was big enough that it wasn't all conglomerated in one dense area. A warm breeze had somehow wriggled its way over the citadel walls and Syna cast a warm glow on Wanda's skin.
It was peaceful as the blonde teen wound her way to the stables, a solid-looking brick building that wasn't ugly but did jut out sharply against the rest of the landscape.
As she walked, her mind drifted to the conversation she'd had with the leader of the to-be caravan. Was is proper to refer to him as the leader? Hadn't he -- Mr. Page -- referred to himself as such? Wanda couldn't remember, and it didn't matter. Instead, she focused on the important bits of things he'd said. Nyka was to the North and East. Sixty or seventy days. What would the weather be like there? What kinds of clothes would she need to buy? These were the kinds of questions she had needed to ask yesterday, and Wanda gave herself a mental kick for not doing so.
This whole deal -- it was just so overwhelming. How many days had it been? Not even fifteen. Not even fifteen days since her mother had passed away, and she felt as if those last words were haunting her. She kept the journal under her pillow, and most nights it felt as if the book, the page, the ink was burning a hole in the fabric. It was heavy as it weighed on her mind, and now she understood why the miners always seemed a little agitated, lugging around burdens every day.
Those were physical burdens though, Wanda noted. The miners could put them down and make their way down to the Rearing Stallion to wash their aches in ale at the end of the day. Theoretically, Wanda could wash her worries away like that too, but he the very task her mother had loaded her with was the same thing that kept Wanda from it.
She never thought that the idea of simply living would bother her so much, but it did. It made her so extremely self-conscious about everything she did. Somehow, that one little notion had wound its way into everything she did.
