by Sister Elrin » Mon Jul 09, 2018 6:22 am
She had followed Nostemur as he wove his way towards the South gate and across the bridge that spanned the East Mavoiir to the Southbank Common, which was markedly less boisterous than the streets of the walled settlement behind them. He said little as they walked, a bundle of tension dressed in practical clothing, only breaking the silence every few minutes to ask brief, inconsequential questions: how did she fare at sea? Had the church sent her and her alone? Was she partial to creamed potatoes, or should he prepare something with more substance for supper?
Her responses were brief, little more than polite dead-ends to any potential conversations they might have had along the way: well enough, for the time being, and that would be more than enough, thank you. Shards of sunlight danced in neat lines across the glassy surface of the Silver Lake far to their right, drawing her attention to what she assumed was the Broken Dagger, one of the more irreputable establishments that she had learned of in Foggy Bottom. Behind the tavern lurked the forest, a tangle of oaks and hickories that seemed to loom over the South bank like some great beast, crouched in waiting as it leered at the town across the water. It made her uneasy in a way that she didn't fully comprehend, and that wariness picked at the corner of her mind like a cloud of gnats, practically intangible were it not for darting whines and ghosting bites.
She flexed her fingers around the hilt of the ax, her grip having grown tighter in her momentary distraction to the point of white knuckles. The tool changed hands as her fingers danced in the air by her hip, enjoying a much-needed stretch, and she caught her companion glancing discreetly back at her--or at least, at the object she was holding. A nervous little man, to be sure. It hardly surprised her that he made his home outside the walls of the community. Though why he would ever prefer the company of those tall, dark trees to other living creatures was ultimately beyond her.
But in the next few minutes, she gained a somewhat better understanding of that particular sentiment. He turned from the road down a packed dirt path, nearly hidden save for a modest sign upon which was painted "The Fireside Inn" nailed to the trunk of a stalwart tree, one branch hanging overhead like a leafy archway. It was, indeed, nothing more than a forest trail, and it did not aspire to be anything more than that, although it was blissfully devoid of jutting roots and loose stones that were quick to turn ankles. The canopy they found themselves beneath dappled the path with flecks of light that swam like an foamy tide back and forth across the woodland carpet, stroking the mounds of wildflowers, grasses and weeds that blanketed every square inch of their surroundings.
There is a wild beauty to this place, she thought, locking eyes with a grazing doe not twenty paces away. It stared back at the her from behind shy lashes, its urge to bolt betrayed by a flitting tail, but it nonetheless stood its ground as it assessed the two of them. She was very much reminded of the man who walked in front of her, guiding her down the trail.
"I cannot imagine many people would prefer such seclusion to the comforts of civilization." It was not intended as a cruel or nettling remark; it was a voice given to the notions of her homeland. Dornant viewed the wilderness as a long-time foe that it battled for dominance of the land, as a bounty of resources to be harvested and repurposed as fuel for the ever-growing machine the nation had become, feeding its people and its research. She had been infinitely puzzled by a landscape painting that hung in the lobby of a seaside inn in New Dauntless when she had first arrived to the Amysinian Province, thinking it crude and uninspired, nature itself plagiarized in oil paints. The innkeeper had laughed at her expression, claiming that such subject matter was more popular than ever in the region, which only lent to her perception of how queer foreign minds could be.
She almost retracted the statement when they reached a clearing roughly a half-mile into the forest that opened into a hilly meadow, atop which sat one of the most charming structures she had ever laid eyes on. The Fireside Inn, as he had called it, was a glorified cabin, a house of stacked logs sealed carefully with mud-colored clay to insulate the interior. It did nothing to impose on the walls of the forest that pressed in on the edges of the clearing, and looked right at home in the heart of the wood.
The meadow was quiet as they approached, the sounds of birdsong filtering across the spacious area from unseen sources. Nostemur opened a chest-high gate which connected a fence that looked sturdy enough to withstand the elements and was tall enough to serve as a deterrent to wildlife, although the simple crosswise pattern the slats were arranged in would do next-to-nothing to bar a person's way. Inside the fence, the dirt path gave way to staggered paving stones, which in turn led to split logs that were roughly four feet long and arranged face-up every foot or so, serving as steps up the incline of the hill. She counted eleven in all as they climbed and absently wondered where the last remaining half had ended up as she drank in what other pleasantries were on display: a fat rain barrel placed beneath a lip of the roof with coiling tendrils of ivy clinging to its base, the full-to-bursting hanging flower beds affixed to the front windows whose plank shutters were thrown wide to greet the day, the muted cluck and fuss of hens behind the building.
As they drew near the front door, the sounds of an argument reached her ears. The sounds of one youth pestering another, and she blinked.
She had not considered children.
The front door swung open abruptly, almost violently, and they were met with a face that was filled with equal parts surprise and relief. The boy simply stood where he was, holding the door open, the appearance of a stranger giving him pause. Nostemur brushed quickly past him, putting distance between himself and his guest and vanishing beyond a doorway further inside. She watched him go, noting the way he discarded his belongings along the way as if they were weighing him down, impeding his flight. Her attention caught on the girl, perhaps younger than the boy, who peered back at her from the fire pit in the center of the room with a mixture of curiosity and distrust, something she was accustomed to seeing stare out at her from the gutters of Fonte.
Well, then.
"Hello." she said simply, adopting the pleasant smile she wore when handing out loaves to beggars. A distant, vacant, but technically pleasant smile, diminished by the presence of a burning lantern hanging from one hand, the ax held in the other. Two pairs of cautious eyes stared her down, and she cleared her throat. "You have a lovely home. I am most grateful that your father has allowed me to stay."
Not knowing what else to say, she made a show of bending gracefully at the waist to lay the ax blade-down against the wall just inside the door, straightening with her hands clasped before her, eyes roving across the interior of the cabin.