Dec 24, 2018 13:26:36 GMT -6
Post by Esialeth Rose on Dec 24, 2018 13:26:36 GMT -6
It has been four years since she fled the only home she has ever known. Four years since she emptied her private coffers, its existence a secret to all but herself, gathered her most precious possessions, and took a ship out of the country.
Things she had four years ago:
• A foreign passport under a new name.
• A pendant from a friend, cushioned under layers of thick clothing.
• A borrowed pocketknife.
• A red-spined book, hand-copied.
• A journal.
• An old flute.
Things she left behind:
• A friendly street cat.
• A letter.
• Exquisite ceremonial clothing.
• Her favorite pen.
• An assortment of handmade weapons.
It has been three years and eleven months since she first arrived in Mistere, penniless and nameless, in a small town on the edge of the coast. She is given refuge by an ex-courtesan, who shows her how to touch up her eyes and lips and cheeks; she learns how to make men fall to pieces before her and how to disappear from their perception altogether, buys a ten-pence makeup kit in the market.
Leaves after her family’s hired guards raid the town in the night.
Things she had three years and eleven months ago:
• A foreign passport under a new name.
• A pendant from a friend, cushioned under layers of thick clothing.
• A borrowed pocketknife.
• A red-spined book, hand-copied.
• A journal.
• An old flute.
• A cheap makeup kit.
Things she left behind:
• A letter, penned in the middle of the night with cheap ink.
It has been three years and five months since she was driven out of another town, this time by its own people rather than the palace guards. Women have once again given her sanctuary, but a couple notice her cherry-red lips, her carefully done eyes, and suspect.
A group of three chases her into the forest, where they whisper of the evil witch that turns visitors to stone.
So she stumbles around the autumnal wilderness until illness—it always happens in spring or fall, not winter like many believe—claims her, and she rests her head against an old tree while leaves crumble in her palms.
Things she had three years and five months ago:
• A foreign passport under a new name.
• A pendant from a friend, cushioned under layers of thick clothing.
• A borrowed pocketknife.
• A red-spined book, hand-copied.
• A journal.
• An old flute.
• A cheap makeup kit.
• Luck.
It has been three years since she woke up in a cottage in the woods, head throbbing and throat parched. Three years since a voice, shaky with age yet firm with conviction, asks for her name.
She has an aura of old power, eldritch and incomprehensible and wise, and Esialeth knows instinctively that she should not lie.
But she does not give the woman her birth name, or even her family name; instead, she gives the woman her made-up name, the one of anachronisms and fickle spring flowers.
“Esialeth Rose,” she whispers, and the woman seems satisfied and hands her a glass of water.
In exchange, the woman gives her name as Edna, with no last name, and Esialeth understands so does not question.
Things she had four years ago:
• A foreign passport under a new name.
• A pendant from a friend, cushioned under layers of thick clothing.
• A borrowed pocketknife.
• A red-spined book, hand-copied.
• A journal.
• An old flute.
Things she left behind:
• A friendly street cat.
• A letter.
• Exquisite ceremonial clothing.
• Her favorite pen.
• An assortment of handmade weapons.
It has been three years and eleven months since she first arrived in Mistere, penniless and nameless, in a small town on the edge of the coast. She is given refuge by an ex-courtesan, who shows her how to touch up her eyes and lips and cheeks; she learns how to make men fall to pieces before her and how to disappear from their perception altogether, buys a ten-pence makeup kit in the market.
Leaves after her family’s hired guards raid the town in the night.
Things she had three years and eleven months ago:
• A foreign passport under a new name.
• A pendant from a friend, cushioned under layers of thick clothing.
• A borrowed pocketknife.
• A red-spined book, hand-copied.
• A journal.
• An old flute.
• A cheap makeup kit.
Things she left behind:
• A letter, penned in the middle of the night with cheap ink.
It has been three years and five months since she was driven out of another town, this time by its own people rather than the palace guards. Women have once again given her sanctuary, but a couple notice her cherry-red lips, her carefully done eyes, and suspect.
A group of three chases her into the forest, where they whisper of the evil witch that turns visitors to stone.
So she stumbles around the autumnal wilderness until illness—it always happens in spring or fall, not winter like many believe—claims her, and she rests her head against an old tree while leaves crumble in her palms.
Things she had three years and five months ago:
• A foreign passport under a new name.
• A pendant from a friend, cushioned under layers of thick clothing.
• A borrowed pocketknife.
• A red-spined book, hand-copied.
• A journal.
• An old flute.
• A cheap makeup kit.
• Luck.
It has been three years since she woke up in a cottage in the woods, head throbbing and throat parched. Three years since a voice, shaky with age yet firm with conviction, asks for her name.
She has an aura of old power, eldritch and incomprehensible and wise, and Esialeth knows instinctively that she should not lie.
But she does not give the woman her birth name, or even her family name; instead, she gives the woman her made-up name, the one of anachronisms and fickle spring flowers.
“Esialeth Rose,” she whispers, and the woman seems satisfied and hands her a glass of water.
In exchange, the woman gives her name as Edna, with no last name, and Esialeth understands so does not question.
