“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”
― Vladimir Nabokov
The jostling of the wagon lulled Muil into a drowsy state. She had not slept in sometime. A few days? A few weeks? She did not know. She was still paranoid about the newcomers that she had stumbled onto. Even in the… was it a month, that had past she still did not exactly trust them. But, Meluiwen trusted them short after they spent the night with them and had declared them ‘Fwends’ shortly after once she overheard them talking about their home and getting rid of the darkness. (Muluiwen didn’t go into detail as she ‘pwomised-ed’ and Muil respected that).
She was tired nonetheless. But there was something more than that. A sad sense deep within her. A kind of bubbling of emotions that made tears spring to her eyes.
“What is wrong trethril?” came an all too familiar voice. Quickly wiping her eyes she squared her shoulders. Damn that man was bothersome!
“What do you want pigenor.” she asked. Her eyes narrowing as she looked over her shoulder at Laindawar. She slowed the wagon down with a deft pull of the reins. The horses, Buttercup and Francis, gladly slowed down, they were not used to traveling at night. Thankfully, it was only till they were a good distance away from the Hills of Chakiz.
Climbing up next to her, Laindawar looked out at the sky. Then he glanced over at Muil. His eyes widening ever so slightly at the tears in hers.
“What is wrong tresteril?” he asked, all seriousness in his tone.
Looking over at him she gave him a wry smile. How could she explain to him this feeling? A strangely melancholic feeling. A longing deep within herself, a loneliness that was deep and profound, a desire for something she could not explain. “It’s hard to explain”
Nodding Laindawar inched his hand closer to hers before thinking better of it. “I’ll leave then.” He started to climb off of the wagon. Reaching out Muil grasped him by the shoulder. A shaky smile blooming as she tried to remain calm.
“My mother name is Baralineth.” she blurted out. Her eyes widening as she quickly brought a hand to her mouth. All she had wanted to ask was for him to sit with her a while. Even though he was bothersome he would...at least stay awake with her.
Looking away for a second he said no more. He stayed there and Muil snapped the reins and the horses started to move again. The only sound between them the jostling of the wagon, the clip clop of horses hooves, and the harsh snores of dwarves and one orc-child. A comfortable peace developing between them. A balm for the torment that Muil was feeling on the inside.
Trethril- Harrasser/Troubler
Pigenor - Tiny One
Baralineth - Fiery Gleam in Her Eyes
Mother name/amilessë - A name given to a elven child by their mother. Considered by many to be intimate and personal as compared to their father names and epesse.
Meluiwen - Joyful One; A tiny, sassy, bubbling, joyous “Uh-rock-ah-nee” (Orc) child that was adopted by Muil after she was born.
