leather
mention of @gildedhusband
Between calloused fingers of the young girl is held a patch of fresh leather. It had been curing within their farm for, what seemed like, an age longer than she could have lived. It’s very existence was rare in a world run by furs and heavy, burlapesque, cloths and oh was she so pleased even to have it in her possession. Her companion, Lord Bartholmew, had brought it to her in it’s earlier stages, promising its craftability and outcome would be just for her. All too soon, after another sparse few months, she would be wearing their piece – Her very own armor set.
The thought of what it could become was enough to make Dahlia giddy.
Excitement ran warm up her spine as she jumped for joy. A stablehand, of whom she’s forgotten the man of, approaches her from the back to retried the rare gem for its departure, though she finds it hard to release the fabric to him. “Be careful with it! –” she calls to the mans back, scampering toward the door of which he would exit. Lolo would be awaiting her within the estate and she ought not keep him waiting, no matter her excitement.
Weeks would pass by far too slowly. Like the agonizing tick of her own boot in the dirt, Dahlia spent what time she could preparing for the coming of her special gift. Much of it was spent trying to find just the right PAIR for it, tactile wise. Would cotton do? Perhaps something heavier would be necessary … Maybe Lolo had something planned already! Like a little jitterbug, she paced from home, to Bartholomew’s estate and back again. Day in and day out, just when Dahlia thought the waiting would finally take her life away —- It arrived.
The parcel itself was not so pretty. Coated here and there by ash and coal dust, likely more from transit than the craft of the wooden crate. The young girl sat before it with hands clasped, her heart fluttering faster and harder than it ever had before. Never had she felt such a rush. Beside her was means of opening the box, a prybar constructed completely of wooden boards. She took to work hastily, pulling from the wreckage a pair of hand and forearm guards as well as a single shoulder. It was sole with intention, it’s strap meant to be the sheath which held her sword when not in use. The gift was absolutely perfect.
For the following week, there was nothing more that she cherished, nor quite wore out, like this treasure. She keeps it, though she has long outgrown it, as a memento.
