@freedomborne
Crisp snowfall, trampled by boots and hooves. Bare feet hop the deeper wedges of carts, making her way from the din of voices practicing their sword arms. Farmers unsure of their footing mixed with veterans who’s breaths puff steam like dragon’s smoke with each forceful blow.
“ Good day, ser Blackwall. ” Greeting half sung, paired with the nod of her head -- loose strands falling to brush tawny cheeks. “ Good day, Herald. ” The man turns from his post, griffin crest glinting in the light, armor creaking like old bones. She sees a sadness in his eyes, and knows dreams haunt him waking and asleep. The girl wonders all that he has seen. “ what are you wearing, lass? You’ll catch your death.”
“ Worry not, ser Blackwall. I am sure they will hurry me back inside soon enough, more paperwork no doubt. ” She shares a laugh, warm and smooth as the honey lit gold of the eye which winks at him. “ I have come to see the work of our new blacksmith. What say you? ” “ Tis fine enough work, though I’ve seen little of the craftsman. perhaps you will have more luck.”
“ I intend to.” Revas steps past the gate, a necessity to keep feet and hands that know not the work clear. The frenzy of activity reminds her of younger days, with lighter hearts. She misses the songs; so much so, she hums them beneath her breath as she eases past the grinder, steady hands making light work of the polishing that need be done.
She remembers other hands in it’s place. Warm and w i d e across her own.
Her heart quakes with feeling.
“ You there. ” She calls to an apprentice, leather apron singed with learning hands, but eyes bright with fire. He will be a good one in time, when his hands are more sure of the blade, a bellows heart in him. Next time she will ask him his name and bring him bread and cheese from the chantry, she will inspire him so his hands may steady, gift him pleasant dreams on long nights.
She will bury him, when the time comes.
“ Go and fetch your mentor for me. I wish to have a word with him.” The ancient voice calls with clear authority. But he stands firm, eyes full of suspicion. Good boy. “ On whose orders? ” His voice squeaks like a door left idle, collecting dust. It rolls in waves of sound, on the cusp of two people and unknowing which way to step. Full lips open to answer, but are cut off by another voice, eyes still on the mold which her fingers smooth.
“ Are you daft? That’s the herald you great ninny.” Older voice, gravel with years and effort, with coal fires and warm drinks. “ T-The Herald ?! I-I’m sorry Miss, I didn’t know -- “ “ Stay yourself, and fear not. They don’t let me out very much. “ The girl called freedom gifts a smile which makes his lip twitch in involuntary mirth.
“ Y-Yes, Miss. I’ll go get him for you, Miss.” And like that the boy was gone, gangly form lumbering toward the hut with a loping pace, ruined by the way he trips over the apron he only half thought to remove. She hears the laughter of the woman, dark eyes looking back toward her with a shake of her strong dwarven features.
“ Kids. What can ya do ?” Is all she says.
