64th of Fall, 511AV
The sun was beginning to peel her way over the horizon, casting soft pink light onto the clouds which filtered through the canopy of her bed. For a few ticks as Leavou woke up, she did not recall where she was. She thought she was still on the Talderan trail, facing the falling leaves with fear and uncertainty. If Winter came before they found the Spires, they would surely be dead. The wind was already growing chilly, and the wilderness guide was growing nervous. If the Jamoura was nervous, they all had something to fear. And yet, as she woke, she already felt the soft furs over her skin, and found herself cuddling further into the musky scent, enjoying the sleep even with the rising sun demanding her consciousness to return to her.
”Little girl…” The long and deep female voice was sounding in her ear, and Leavou turned over. It was not her mother’s shrill Konti voice, but rather a unrecognizable Jamoura tone. Still, even knowing it was not her mother who called on her, Leavou turned expecting to see the high cheekbones and crazed expression of her Konti mother. Instead it was the wrinkled and wise face of one of Quett’s wives. Her newborn child clung to her chest, and her large Jamoura palm was resting on Leavou’s pillow, preparing to rouse her.
And then it all came crashing down. Her mother was dead.
Well, Leavou did not actually know. All Leavou knew is that she had willingly left her mother. She had helped the caravan trick her into sleep and leave her on the trail with supplies. The madness was finally too much, and Quett said the Spires would not allow them into the city with an overgiving mage in their party. It was the hardest decision Leavou had ever made, and at the fresh age of fifteen, she wasn’t equipped to deal with the guilt of such a decision. Without warning, Leavou found her vision blurring as her eyes teared up, and she could not stop her face from contorting in emotional pain.
”Oh, dear.” The Jamoura sighed, and her massive leathery hand moved to find its way into Leavou’s sillky black hair, petting and soothing her as best she can. ”I know, you’ve been through a lot. But you need to go talk with Quett. We need to find you a place to stay.” The words were deep and slow, giving Leavou ample time to listen and react. The touch which was meant to be soothing was irritating, simply because it tempted her to releasing her emotions and crying more in the comfort of this foreign mother figure.
”Do I have to?”
”Yes, today, most likely.” The Jamoura mother cooed, still gently petting Leavou’s hair. The half-blood squeezed her eyes to try and stop the tears over her own lost mother, and sniffled to keep the snot from running further out of her nose. She reached up to remove the massive primate hand from her head, and nodded.
”Okay.” Leavou agreed. She understood that this was an awkward situation for everyone. She was the strange daughter of an overgiven mage that belong to no race. She had no reason to be in The Spires without her mother, and barely had any way of making a living for herself. At fifteen she was too old to be an orphan, and should be well into her education in her trade skill, but she wasn’t. She had spent over a year following her mother’s madness around Kalea and Taldera in search of a cure, and had not progressed herself. She was useless. She was dead weight. And Quett or his family had no obligation to help her in any way, and yet he was. He had offered her a place to lay her head after the banishing of her mother, and now he was likely going to tell her she had to find her own way. She had to at least be strong in the face of whatever her future was about to look like.
”He is in his office, clean yourself and join him. He would like to talk to you.” She advised, taking her hand back and pressing it on her Jamoura child’s head caringly. The motion was tender and subconscious, and it only served to make Leavou sick. The last time she had received a loving touch from her mother was when she tried to braid her hair on the way to Denval, and was overcome with a rage fit which had yanked out many of Leavou’s long black locks. She was jealous of this newborn Jamoura child.
”M’kay,” She muttered, turning away from the polite mother and diving back into her furs, not wanting to leave what would possibly be the last comforts she would have.
The sun was beginning to peel her way over the horizon, casting soft pink light onto the clouds which filtered through the canopy of her bed. For a few ticks as Leavou woke up, she did not recall where she was. She thought she was still on the Talderan trail, facing the falling leaves with fear and uncertainty. If Winter came before they found the Spires, they would surely be dead. The wind was already growing chilly, and the wilderness guide was growing nervous. If the Jamoura was nervous, they all had something to fear. And yet, as she woke, she already felt the soft furs over her skin, and found herself cuddling further into the musky scent, enjoying the sleep even with the rising sun demanding her consciousness to return to her.
”Little girl…” The long and deep female voice was sounding in her ear, and Leavou turned over. It was not her mother’s shrill Konti voice, but rather a unrecognizable Jamoura tone. Still, even knowing it was not her mother who called on her, Leavou turned expecting to see the high cheekbones and crazed expression of her Konti mother. Instead it was the wrinkled and wise face of one of Quett’s wives. Her newborn child clung to her chest, and her large Jamoura palm was resting on Leavou’s pillow, preparing to rouse her.
And then it all came crashing down. Her mother was dead.
Well, Leavou did not actually know. All Leavou knew is that she had willingly left her mother. She had helped the caravan trick her into sleep and leave her on the trail with supplies. The madness was finally too much, and Quett said the Spires would not allow them into the city with an overgiving mage in their party. It was the hardest decision Leavou had ever made, and at the fresh age of fifteen, she wasn’t equipped to deal with the guilt of such a decision. Without warning, Leavou found her vision blurring as her eyes teared up, and she could not stop her face from contorting in emotional pain.
”Oh, dear.” The Jamoura sighed, and her massive leathery hand moved to find its way into Leavou’s sillky black hair, petting and soothing her as best she can. ”I know, you’ve been through a lot. But you need to go talk with Quett. We need to find you a place to stay.” The words were deep and slow, giving Leavou ample time to listen and react. The touch which was meant to be soothing was irritating, simply because it tempted her to releasing her emotions and crying more in the comfort of this foreign mother figure.
”Do I have to?”
”Yes, today, most likely.” The Jamoura mother cooed, still gently petting Leavou’s hair. The half-blood squeezed her eyes to try and stop the tears over her own lost mother, and sniffled to keep the snot from running further out of her nose. She reached up to remove the massive primate hand from her head, and nodded.
”Okay.” Leavou agreed. She understood that this was an awkward situation for everyone. She was the strange daughter of an overgiven mage that belong to no race. She had no reason to be in The Spires without her mother, and barely had any way of making a living for herself. At fifteen she was too old to be an orphan, and should be well into her education in her trade skill, but she wasn’t. She had spent over a year following her mother’s madness around Kalea and Taldera in search of a cure, and had not progressed herself. She was useless. She was dead weight. And Quett or his family had no obligation to help her in any way, and yet he was. He had offered her a place to lay her head after the banishing of her mother, and now he was likely going to tell her she had to find her own way. She had to at least be strong in the face of whatever her future was about to look like.
”He is in his office, clean yourself and join him. He would like to talk to you.” She advised, taking her hand back and pressing it on her Jamoura child’s head caringly. The motion was tender and subconscious, and it only served to make Leavou sick. The last time she had received a loving touch from her mother was when she tried to braid her hair on the way to Denval, and was overcome with a rage fit which had yanked out many of Leavou’s long black locks. She was jealous of this newborn Jamoura child.
”M’kay,” She muttered, turning away from the polite mother and diving back into her furs, not wanting to leave what would possibly be the last comforts she would have.
