Creative Writing - A Day in the Life of a Child

[Jobe Thaniel Steward]

So, at one point, all of our characters were little snot nosed squirts. Some of them will have been more snot nosed than others. For some, childhood might not be all that long ago, for others it might seem like an age has passed since scraped knees and early bedtimes.

What were your characters like when they were small?

What was a usual day like in their lives?

Be as detailed or as vague as you like. I would love to read some wonderful stories ^^

There ain't no fancy prize for this! Just enjoy nosing at other people's stuff. Ahh

[Kane of Admin]

Baby-Zeric exploded his cot.

And his nanny.

K.

[Sorynn]

Yeah, I imagine those godly diapers can be rather...volatile.

[Bo Bonnie]

Bo clung to Nana's leg. They had been standing around the Well for marcs, and more and more chattering women kept coming. They were a loud and prattling gaggle. Gossiping and hooting. Amidst the voices, Bo could pick out Molly Green, shrill and loud, telling the noisy congregation that Maebella was getting bonded to Jacob. It was only a few turns til the Big Day. Why were they in such a rush, now? In Pat Mckie's opinion it was highly suspicious, and Nana agreed. "Well, we'll know soon enough, girls. Anyone that knows their numbers will. Aye, we'll be keeping watch for that belly of her's growing."

Bo hadn't the faintest idea of what the women were talking about. Maebella was pretty. Bo couldn't see it for herself, but everyone said so. For the poor, little, blind girl, even a trip to the village well was a sensory overload. She could hear and smell the pigs that were rooting around at the other side of the yard. Children shrieked and laughed about her with their feet scrabbling madly at the well-packed dirt. She stuck close to Nana's side, not wanting to be lost in the rabble. The noise around her was raucous and whirling, and she was unable to close her ears to it. Someone knocked roughly into her, and the feeling followed by fingers knotting cruelly into her hair told her that Ivor was here. Ivor was a bully. Just a little while ago he had gotten into trouble for cutting off a hunk of Bo's hair with his father's skinning knife. There was still a sizable patch of her hair missing. He wasn't supposed to bother her anymore. He was supposed to leave her well alone. Nana was too busy chattering to notice Bo's plight. When Bo felt Ivor's fingers twist again, she screamed.

"Oi, you! I've told you before about bothering my Bo! Off with you! Don't you be making me have words with your folks again, lad!" Intervened Nana at last. Ivor shouted something rude and ran off. The women clucked.

"He's a regular wrong'un is that lad," commented Pat with a tut as Nana stroked soothingly at Bo's sore head. Bo buried her face into Nana's itchy apron and sniffed.

Nana was old, she must have been. Just about everyone called her Nana. The only person that didn't was Mister James who lived in the cottage next door. He called her Delilah, which was her proper name. Mister James' voice was old, too. He was kind. He always passed sweets to Bo over the garden fence and let her pet his little dog, Joe. Joe licked a lot, but he never nipped. Despite her obvious years, Nana was still a sturdy woman. Her hand still felt large upon Bo's head and the leg that she so often clung to was tall and thick. Sometimes still, Nana would sit Bo in her lap and rock her gently - an indulgence that they both knew that she was too old for now, but they did all the same. Nana did walk with a cane from time to time, when the weather was cold and wet. But other than that she was a robust woman, still full of strength.

"Right then, lasses. I best be getting the babe home," announced Nana, bending to retrieve the heavy bucket of water at her side and untangle Bo from her skirts. Bo felt Nana's thick hand close around her's and knew it was her cue to make polite goodbyes. She was glad to be going home. She always was. The cottage was safe; small and familiar. She knew it's smell and could navigate it's interior without knocking into anything.

As the sturdy old woman and the frail, young, blind girl disappeared slowly across the yard, the remaining women's talk shifted to new gossip. "She shouldn't still be calling her 'the babe'. That lass ain't no babe no more. Heck, she hasn't been for more than a good few cycles now," said Pat, folding her skinny arms across her chest and squinting against the 'rifter's glare.

"Aye, the lass is fourteen winters now if she's a day. I mean, how old was she when we found her? Three, four cycles old at the very least," Molly shook her head, "And Nana tells me she's getting her cycles now. Poor lamb."

"The Millers should have took her. They already have five lasses of their own. What difference would another one have made to them?"

"Aye, but that George is a greedy bugger... And besides, he reckons that her birth mother was a wrong'un, some floosie from town,"divulged Pat before adding with a shrug of her shoulders, "Never know, might be some truth in it by the way young Ivor hangs about her. We might be wrongfully blaming the lad".

"Eeesh! Patricia Mckie! What a thing to say about a poor bairn!" Though, Molly laughed through her apparent outrage as she made a small, playful swipe for her old friend's arm.

The sight of young Lara Brown with a bundle strapped to her front heading their way quietened the women's banter. That bundle must be the new baby. She'd laboured for two days with that one. "Ey, Lara! Let's have a look at that lovely new babby then," called Molly, reaching into her skirt pocket and groping for a silver coin to touch to the babe's palm for luck, all talk of old Nana and her little Bo Bonnie forgotten in an instant.

[Viviyana]

What a great snippet of life! Now I have a thousand things I want to know about Bo.

Also, Viv-Kid is going to hunt down stupid Ivor and smash in his nose.

[Viviyana]

I had tons of fun with this!! Thanks for the inspiration



Fish are remarkably fast creatures, especially when one is trying to catch them. This particular fish was taunting the orange haired girl standing knee-deep in its watery home. With nothing better to do that turn, life as a kept fish was exceedingly dull, it amused itself with swimming close enough to be just within her reach and then darting back into the shadows of the large courtyard pool at her slightest move.

"I'm not going to hurt you!" The girl's shouted promise was belied by the small kick that sent ripples chasing after the fish as it retreated. It would have been a larger kick, most likely, but was hindered by the heavy confines of her wet gown.

"I just want to see how it is you don't drown in all that water. And ears, do fish have ears?" She peered into the water, narrowed eyes tracking her fishy prey. Inch by inch it creeped closer to her.

"What are you doing!?" The shriek sent the young girl jerking around, her prey escaping back into the dark safety of the deeper end of the pool.

"Erm, catching fish?" She offered the woman who stood there staring at her in horror; Kya, one of the many servants who passed through the manse, none of them ever made it long, looked about in tears.

"In that gown? Your parents will be here this eve! What are you going to wear? I worked forever getting that ready!" Her anger advanced her across the clean cobblestone of the courtyard and to the edge of the pool.

Oops. And she had liked Kya, too. "Well you have ages until then. Just, clean it...or I can wear my old one, we can make it fancier. Mother will never know." But she would, her mother always noticed things like dresses. She almost uttered an apology, it lingered just behind her lips. Apologies were dangerous things, things that could be rejected, a last course of action, anger was easier by far.

"And that is your problem, not mine. You should have prepared two." The girl hated how her voice chilled, how very much it sounded like her mother's cutting tone. "Never address me in such a tone again."

It worked, she saw the instant Kya's face changed, worry taking the place of the anger. The girl climbed from the pool and made her way into the manse, leaving a trail of droplets in her wake.

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Fresh from a bath and safely ensconced in the plush window seat of her bedroom, the girl watched the bustling streets of Branishor below. As she waited for sight of the blond headed boy she arranged her dolls around her. Eight doll in all, one to mark each anniversary of her birth. The latest, a beautiful dark haired doll, had arrived not four turns past. Sarah, she named her. She held Sarah up so she could watch all the people passing below. She loved watching the merchants and apprentices going about their business, or the occasional adventurer buying supplies, but most of all the children darting and playing among them.

Right on marc the boy, her very best friend, came into view like he did every turn at the time. She imagined all sorts of amazing places he was heading to, or coming from. She pressed her face against the window to assure that he saw her there. And he did, coming to a stop in the street below, like he always did. He lifted his hand in greeting before scanning the streets for guards. Quickly, he tossed the bundle over the wall that circled her family's manse and into the garden behind the kitchen. And then he was gone, lost again in the crowded avenue. She wondered, as she always did, what his name was.


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The clink of cutlery against fine dinnerware was the only sound that broke the silence of the dining room. The girl wouldn't have minded if it hadn't been for the feeling of impending doom. It was easy to ignore, however, as she stuffed food in her mouth, feet swinging free underneath the large table.

"Well, Viviyana, I see your lessons in conversing have been a waste of your father's plat." And there it was. The start. "I see you haven't mastered table manners either." The words halted the fork overfilled with food before it made contact with the girl's lips. She lowered it again.

"Sorry, Mother, I was lost in thought. How was your trip?" She looked down at her fork, wondering what the polite way of removing half the food stuck to it was. That had not been in any of her deportment lessons, she was pretty sure.

"It was profitable, as usual. We saw Connor, he was looking well. He sent a package back for you, I hope you will write him to thank him. He says he hasn't heard from you in quite some while."

The glob on the fork stared up at her, mockingly. She couldn't ting it against the plate, Mother would hear that. She couldn't scrape it off with her knife, she had already mistakenly left it on one of the platters from the first course...another problem she would have to solve before the meat course.

"Are you listening?" Tatiana Avantis stared at her plain faced daughter in despair. With neither beauty nor grace she feared for the girl's future. Her only hope was in her brains, and lately she despaired over that as well.

"Sorry, Mother, I was lost in thought. How was your trip?" The girl chirped politely, a well trained bird.

Having diverted her mother's attention back to snot-nosed Conner the girl turned back to the pressing matter of the glob. Her finger was out of the question, of course. Perhaps if she flicked it just right it would fling back to the plate without having to actually touch the plate. She waited until Cedric refilled her mother's wine, flicking just her wrist. Success, the little glob landed silently right there where it originally sat. Quite proud, she looked up into her mother's cold eyes.

"Really, Viviyana, if you can't conduct yourself as a young woman you have no right sitting with adults. You can return to the nursery."

The girl couldn't leave fast enough, sliding from her seat and dashing back towards freedom.

[Odette Lavoie]

"Yer gunna become a grand storyteller like yer Ma, don't ye worry!" The boy watched Odette as she carefully counted out the appropriate amount of wares; baskets, blankets, and leather. He had already put his pa's own offering up, several hens ready for plucking and cooking.

Odette's silence as she assessed the values of her first trade by herself caused the boy to fidget before he continued to speak. "Liked the story that ye told me last time when we sat by the reflecting pool." His face fell as Odette pushed the wares towards him and looked up at him, she hadn't heard a word he said.

"Think this'll make your Pa 'bout as happy as a wolf alone with a baby bos?" She asked uncertainly as she grabbed the basket filled with dispatched hens.

"Think that he will like 'em just fine." The boy nodded, running his hand over the top blanket before he grabbed the whole box she had placed them in. He turned and hopped up onto the back of his cart to place them with the remainder of his wares from his trade route. He took longer than he would have liked to muster up the courage to speak again. "Detty, I was wondering if I could ask ye if ye were willing ta go with me ta the Harvest Celebrations."

He closed his eyes tight as silence was his answer and pressed on regardless, "Cuz I been meaning ta tell ye something fa a while now and it be real important-like." He swallowed before he turned, his face scrunched in determination. His wind faltered him as he spotted Odette near the edge of the forest waving to him.

"I'm almost late! I'll talk to you next time!" And with that, Odette disappeared from view.

The boy exhaled the breath that held the courage he worked up and sat down heavily, "Dag-gummit."

***

"You heard my story, Odette. Now it's your turn." The woman's wrinkled face wore a kind smile as she looked down at Odette and petted her wild red hair in a vain attempt to smooth it.

Odette crawled away from her grandma before she crouched in the middle of the story circle and both of her hands smoothed the dirt in front of her. Her grandma began to beat a gentle rhythm on her boshide drum.

Her head bowed in observation of the blank canvas of dirt below her, "The sands scorched against the bare soles of their feet as they trudged along through the desert. No home lay behind them, no destination in front. Their camp had been torn asunder by sandy winds and left them wandering, wanting..."

She looked up at her grandma and ma who sat nearby, and they nodded encouragingly. She wet her lips before she attempted to continue, words fumbling and faltering despite her best efforts. Those around her, her family and friends, understood fully the difficulty of a proper telling at an age where childish whimsy was soon to be left behind. They understood the panic of losing the spark of life your story had, but the moment to recover it belonged to Odette alone.

Her breath hitched and she dragged her hands towards herself, readying to draw herself up to her full height so she might retreat back to the side of her grandma and admit defeat in the moment. She had fallen silent for nearly half a marc, staring at the freshly drawn tattoos that scrawled down her arms.

"Dearest," Her grandma's voice rattled her from her thoughts and Odette's head jerked up, "Do not be obsessed with perfection. Find your own voice. Let it guide you."

Odette smiled sweetly as she drew herself up to her full height and wiggled her toes in the dirt, “Perhaps my imagination is as barren as a river’s bed in a drought?”

"No one's imagination is quite that bare, little one. Now. Run along and go play."

"How can I fix this?" Odette stared hopefully at her ma and then her grandma in turn, though it was her grandma that spoke

"Time. One turn you will seek out your spark of inspiration, your reason for the telling. You will awake one morning and follow your heart."

The young girl nodded, the word puzzling at best as she ran off to join the other children.

[Sehdae Ly]

Hasty hiding doesn't make allowances for comfort or discernment, so it was no wonder an anthill had become part of her unintended perch. Bad enough the bush foliage had scraped and scrabbled, pulling and stinging as she'd urgently clamored into the farthest back reaches, but to have ants climbing her barely stilled legs made the need to remain hidden seem eternal and impossible. They weren't biting yet, though she could feel their legs in multitude tickling across her bare feet and calves as she carefully peered through the foliage gaps in search of her pursuers' positions.

Breaths intentionally slowed and easy, tongue absently prodding the newly acquired gap where her front tooth once was, her eyes continue their precise scan. The feline oddity of her narrowed gaze finally landing on her attackers, stabbing the bushes opposite hers with their wooden swords and sticks.

Wincing as her poking hits the exposed nerve, a small whimper escapes her lips without consent. Quickly followed by a childs' curse and a mouth smothering hand, self chastisement for giving further clue to her position. Stupid, she should be more skilled at this game.

"Come out, little monster! We just want to play!" The crowd of boys snicker together, moving closer to the sound of her mistake, making her push back further to grit her spine against the stone garden wall-- lips and throat clamped tightly on a sudden whine of fear.

More insults pelt her way, the words 'animal' and 'unnatural' familiar designations. Mocked by their laughter, she continues to remain still, unmoving, mentally reminding herself words are less grievous than the physical wounds she's accustomed to.

The whup and whistle of a swinging sling cuts through the air, reaching her ears just before a small rock projectile jostles the surrounding leaves to hit the dirt near her toes with a muted thump. Cornered, the muscles of her legs and back twitch and tremble as she fights preys' urge to 'run, run, run'!

"Shee-dah! Mina syrra, where are you?" Prim and proper rescue! Sehdae's head whips towards her twin's voice, making her split lip throb with the racing of her heart. Mixed relief and resigned annoyance sweep through her, head poking up warily.

She rolls her eyes in classic tween rebellion at the scene before her, braving a sneer while their backs are turned towards her more conventional sister. As usual, her assailants have gone from roving barbarians to gentleman callers, wielding honeyed words and focused flirtations. Mehrsah holds court now, properly decked out in a flower dipped example of some lacy spring fashion. Sehdae settles in to watch the exchange and wait for her assisted escape, a loud sigh on her lips, head barely topping the bushes as she rises fully and crosses her small arms.

Giggling and curtsying in all the right places, Mersah holds her hand forth to receive proper greetings from each boy. Her smile is perfect, polite, even if her frost-blue eyes are stormy with repressed anger. Hormones dull the notice of such things or they are just naturally unobservant as a sex, Seh never could decide. Dark curls bounce, shining in 'rifter's rays as her sister bobs her head to this comment or that, patiently feigning animated interest with each in turn. Shifting from foot to foot, Sehdae is as impatient as her sister is the opposite; in all things really.

Manners' dictates met, Mersah makes her farewells before allowing her attention to seek out her smaller, bush bound sibling. Sadness touches her features briefly though she wipes it away quickly enough- lifting her hand palm out in invitation, chin tilting a challenge to the still milling boys.
"Come home, syrra." she calls, voice musical, warm.

Sehdae represses a self mocking snort, stepping forth with what dignity she can muster in her tattered shift dress. That voice is the only home she has and even that is fleeting, temporary, controlled by the whim of others. The hoped for effect of brave decorum is immediately ruined by the clinging branches at her back and tangled in her pale locks. Even the bush knows this is a bad idea, she thinks, as she tugs herself forcefully free. Feet bare, blood oozing from a hundred burning cuts she continues on her path home.

Keeping her mind focused on the outstretched palm she tips her own chin up, pushing panic down as she borrows sibling bravery and mimics the proud stance of her twin in miniature. It will be warm, she tells herself, safe and comforting, dwarfing mine completely... Breath in, out again, almost there.

Her journey, though, inevitably brings her close to her turnly torturers and she hisses unconsciously, lips lifting on a silent snarl of defense. The word cursed echoes through the group and back. Wincing internally her eyes flit apologetically back to Mersah and her ever persistently lofted hand, cheeks reddening in a blush of embarrassment. Ignoring the comments her sister merely smiles at her, gesturing for her to come once more, Seh darts the rest of the way--propriety be damned.

As her hand finally slips into its larger counter part, relief ripples through her, muscles she thought relaxed suddenly un-knot fully and a soft thrum begins to hum in her throat.

"That's better then." Mersah looks down on her fondly, squeezing her hand softly as she turns away from their peers."Shall I carry you?" She whispers teasingly.

Head barely topping Mersah's tucked waist, they make a comical pair.
"Har, har. Taller does not mean older, you know?" Sehdae laughs softly at the teasing, none the less, harrowing normalcy pushed aside-- clinging to this brief respite completely.

"I am older though."

"A marc's tick doesn't count as older, syrra." She frowns at the pronounced lisping whistle her missing tooth suddenly produces, glaring when her sister loses herself to a true giggle of mirth. "PaPa is going to give me a lashing." Her pale head dips, concentrating on her steps as her tiny legs compete to keep up with her sisters' longer strides.

Mersah's laughter drops at this statement, nodding the truth of it. "I left a gift in your room. Some candles and a sweet beneath our hidden board, eh?"

"Ah, I am to be banished to the dark again am I? Having a party, then?" There is no sadness in her reply, just acceptance as the mismatched pair of night and day disappear around a bend.


((Thanks for the creative exercise! I've not made myself write in a while ))

[Cenny]

The sounds of soft laughter echo from just beyond the closed door, each gentle peal encouraging a growing headache. A small boy tugs the coarse blanket higher, up over his ear as though to limit the sound, yet with blue eyes peering over the material at the door in a bleary curiosity. There's a bothering tickle in his throat, but he murmurs, "Ly." His head sinks against a slight pillow, slowly breathing in and out. "Lycurgus," he speaks up, voice still coming lower than intended.

"Ly!" And this call is followed by a brief, hacking cough. The boy blinks, turns a teary face to press into the pillow as he would will away the cough and the itch. Another, muted cough trembles him. Beyond the door, the sounds of conversation quiet. As yet another cough wracks the boy, the door opens. Moments pass, and then a few gentle pairs of hands are propping him up, and a cup of water is offered. He drinks, calms, and leans toward one of the two - a young man, still older than the boy by several years, yet somehow already possessed of receding hair. The other, a woman close in age, retreats to a table near the wall, leaving the pair.

The young man, presumably Lycurgus, briefly presses a hand to Cen's forehead, murmuring worriedly. "You should be sleeping, Cennetig," he says. "You aren't well yet."

"Never am..." complains the boy. His hands clutch at the elder's arms, as though to keep him there.

And for a short time, he stays. The woman leaves, returning with a cup of tea before leaving the brothers alone once more. The sick boy drinks the warm beverage, slowly becoming more lethargic. And his brother beside him helps, and softly hums a tune meant to comfort. The boy relaxes, warm and safe and quieted.

The soft-hummed tune follows him into dreams, even long after Lycurgus has quietly made his exit.

[Dimitri Petrov]

The two young boys weaseled back into their hidey hole with loot in hand. Dimitri, being the smaller and quicker of the two, was in the lead as he had reached the tunnel first and he claimed his seat.

“Ye got it, aye?” Darian called as he worked one arm through the tunnel then the other.

Dimitri leaned forward and placed the checked handkerchief on the table, in the middle of it glistened a jeweled necklace. A brilliantly wide smile spread on his face, faltering only slightly as he watched his brother wiggle through the tunnel entry. “Ye sure ye don’ wan’ t’ widen tha’ tunnel any? Marm says yer getting’ bigger sideways an’-.”

“Was there durin’ the talkin’! Know wha’ she said.” Darian pulled himself through the tunnel and sat on his chair. He extended his legs out in front of him and snatched up the necklace. “Ye think she will like it?”

“Course! Ye saw her eyin’ the lady this morn!” Dimitri seemed so certain as he spoke those words.

A brief inventory of their stashed items was taken before the two lads slipped back out the tunnel and returned back home with the necklace in tow for Marmasa.

***

“Marm!” Dimitri skipped in after Darian, not yet old enough to take shame in doing such as a lad. “We got ye a presen’!” His skipped stopped abruptly as Cap’n came into view, the old man quietly sipping at some homebrew or another while Marm tended to his bloodied knuckles.

Cap’n only had one good eye and it was fixed on Dimitri. Marm stood and turned to look at the two boys, Darian tall enough by now that they were the same height.

“Wot did ya brin’ me lads?” She motioned for them to come closer with an outstretched hand.

Dimitri was all too eager to scamper forward and place the necklace in her hand, “Do ye like it?”

Marm brought the necklace up for inspection and a smile spread, “Lads, it be real pretty. If any ‘oo knew ‘er comes visitin’ it won’t be ‘ard ter figure out where it came from.”

Dimitri’s smile fell entirely and he looked between Marm and the necklace, “Wha’ should I do wit’ it then?”

Marm shrugged and offered it back for Dimitri to take from her, “Return it ter ‘er.”

“Oh…” His face fell entirely as he accepted the necklace back from her, “Wha’ if’n she lef’ the island already Marm?”

“Figure aht wot ter do wif it then.”

Dimitri stared down at the necklace in his hands before he shoved it to Darien, “Figure ou’ wha’ t’ do wit’ it, aye? Tis half yers.”

The older brother laughed heartily and shook his head, “Why nae hang it like a star from the ceilin’?” The suggestion lingered in the air between them before the two brothers darted towards the stairs in a race to determine who would reach the top first.

[Doyle]

I've a scene playing in my head... just need to get it out and into words...

[Viviyana]

I've a scene playing in my head... just need to get it out and into words...

Yes! So excited

[Jobe Thaniel Steward]

Even the most accomplished of ladies may find difficulty walking in four inch heels, so an eight year old boy had little hope at all of exuding any glamour in such footwear. Still, Jobe Thaniel was making a spirited attempt of shuffling across the landing in his mother's heels. He had been raiding her expansive wardrobe, again. A string of pearls was looped twice about his neck and a feather boa hung in the crooks of his elbows. A goblet of milk sloshed in his child's hand as he shuffled.

Mal had said only sissies wore girl's clothes, but when Jobe had dared his twin brother to don the same he had refused vehemently and stalked off. "You are the sissy, Mal! You won't even dare, ha!"

It had been victory! Victory for the fledgingly peacock dressed in his mother's plummage. He was going to see mother now. He needed her to help him paint his face. Why shouldn't he do exactly as he liked anyway?!

"Mummy!" chirped Jobe at her clopped noisily into his mother's plush boudoir. She was seated at the dressing table, her sable hair catching the light from the window as she sat carefully pinning her elegant up-do. She turned and smiled radiantly at the sound of her kitten's mewl, "My Prince!" She called indulgently as she beckoned him with an extended hand.

"Mummy, I need you to line my eyes with that pencil."

She inclined her head regally, "Very well, Goblin King."

"No!" Objected Jobe Thaniel, finally arriving gracelessly at his mother's side and purposefully setting down his goblet of milk, "I am the thin, white duke today!"

[Dimitri Petrov]

((I decided writing a second one is in order so I scraped it together over the last few days. Dimitri would've been about 16 or so. Going by my dad's logic, he's still a child ))

***

"Pa?" Arissa tugged at Darian's hand, "What's wron' wif unca?" Her small hand could only wrap around a couple of fingers. She stared, mouth gaped open at her uncle as he sat in front of the tombstone with flowers held limply in one hand.

"He feels 'lone, little'un," Darian answered softly and the rough pad of his thumb petted her hand.

"But he has ma an' ye an' me! He ain' 'lone a' all." She turned to her pa with her eyes widened by the persistent innocence of childhood and tugged at his hand again.

Darian knelt to pick her up and the girl gratefully buried her face into his beard. "Wha' is ain' always wha' we see."

***

Dimitri waited for marcs upon marcs to ensure the shop owner was gone before he approached the back entry and found the spare key with practiced ease. Once inside he quieted the closing of the door with his palm, but no sooner did he turn before he yelped. The pile of boxes nearest to him swayed unsteadily and further movement drew his attention, the young woman he had come to visit leaned heavily on the nearby desk and swung at the top box with one of her canes.

His yelp was followed closely by her name. “Becca!”

“You’re late!” She shifted her weight anew with another swing at the top box and Dimitri hurried forward to guard her in fear of it toppling. She quietly complied as his hand sought to lower her cane back to the ground.

“Wha’ were ye thinkin’?” The sternest look he knew belonged to Marm and he did his best impression of it to use on Becca.

"I got tired of waiting." Becca's smile melted the borrowed look in an instant and she leaned the cane against the desk in favor of pinching Dimitri’s cheek, "You usually show up when I try something dangerous."

"Wha' if'n I didn'?" Dimitri huffed at her, his head ducking so he could fluff up the back of his hair. “Don’ know wha’ I would do wit’ meself if’n I got ye hurt, love.”

She leaned in and pressed her cheek against his. "You're always there for me.”

Dimitri closed his eyes and inhaled, an involuntary smile forming on his lips. "Becca, ye know why I be here, aye?"

"I do."

"An'?" Dimitri pulled back from the embrace to stare at her.

Becca laughed and petted Dimitri's check. "And you worry too much, father has been planning this meeting all cycle. This time next turn we'll be at Dundee's Welcome Center. Soon I'll be on my way to being a cleric and you'll be on your way to being..." Becca paused before she questioned, "Have you decided?"

"I ain'." He whispered, the words soft enough that Becca took both of his hands with hers and shifted her weight enough so the bulk rested on her left.

"What's wrong Dimitri?"

"I...jus' be worried." He would've stopped there if not for Becca nodding him along encouragingly, "Ye wan' t' try'n learn t' heal yer leg... wha' happens when ye do?"

"We'll go dancing, of course! Proper dancing, not you carrying me as we twirl." The smile she wore faded as their eyes met again, the worry storming still in his blue eyes.

"Ye won' need me none, though." Dimitri cast his gaze down and Becca slid one hand to his cheek.

"Look at me Dimi." The gentle nickname did nothing to coax his eyes. She tried again, "Dimitrius."

Finally, he looked up and she smiled at him, "I didn't ask you to run away with me because I need you Dimitrius. I asked you because I want you to be there with me. Think of all the good we could do! You could become a cleric with me and we could build a home for orphans and--"

Dimitri laughed even though he knew he shouldn't and he dug his teeth into his lower lip.

"Don't laugh Dimitrius!" She pinched his cheek before she spoke again, "I want to leave Kili...but it has to be with you."

"Promise ye won' leave me 'hind?"

She smiled at him anew and her forehead leaned against his cheek as he bowed his cheek to meet her. "I promise to accept you for who you are and not expect you to be someone you aren't, to never require an apology to forgive you, to protect you as you would protect me, and I promise I won't leave you be for as long as I'm allowed to be by your side, Dimitri."

[ZarockNight]

Was never a child

[Thorne]

Countdown to Entropy

"Five," the boy says, confidently. "I bid five." He is striking even now at a mere fourteen winters. His light hair falls to his wide shoulders and his artless smile is one of pure pleasure at having arrived at a winning solution. He spreads his hands wide to encompass the small table where two other children sit surveying stacks of wooden discs.

"Bjorn," gently chides the girl to his right. "That's almost the entire spread. You are sure that so many roses grow in this garden?" She smiles at him with undisguised affection.

She is younger than he by two summers, born within days of yourself, with hair so pale it is near white. Though, she has grown more swiftly and equals him in height. And exceeds him in everything else, you laugh to yourself. With well-trained and natural grace, she lets her long fingers drift to the two decoratively-carved discs, daubed yellow, stacked before him, then the two white before herself, and finally the two blue stacked in front of your own place. She always insisted you play blue, and as always, you found yourself helpless to refuse her.

The older boy had an answer. You watch him screw his eyes up in attempt to appear clever. "I know you've got no skulls, Snow," he tells her with another smile, "Because you are close to winning. And Thorne always plays his skull first. He's gotten me with that twice now."


"Four, actually," you think to yourself, "you mouth-breathing imbecile." You listen to him recount the events of the game's progress, slowly describing conclusions that are so obviously arrived at, it actually pains you to hear the deductive logical process described. It took four hands to lead him to this, two just now and two from their last game a quarter-Cycle past, including the final decisive hand. Enough, you thought, for him to carry it away from the table and at some point realize what he had done wrong. Enough, you thought, to allow recognition to hammer its way through the boulder on his neck which protected him from understanding the vagaries of the outside world, and lead him to realize that the same thing was happening again. And thus, fail to you again.

Bjorn has finished his explanation and looks at you now. "Like his own shadow," more than one simpleton had declared over the dozen of your life's seasons, "Even the eyes, such a clear blue. Everything except that dark hair, he's like the young master's own shadow, ain't he?" He awaits an answer from you and you're prepared to raise, clear the table, and win the game but his sister speaks first.

"What makes you certain I am so innocent?" Snow asks, her faint eyelashes catching in the moted rays of 'rifter cast through the narrow open tower windows. "Perhaps I play a similar game to Thorne's?" She reaches to touch the fourth proximal phalanx of your left hand. Her touch is cool and smooth, like glass. It lingers only a moment but it is enough time to glance up to meet the same blue eyes from your earliest memories, suckling like twins upon her mother's breast. "Though perhaps, not with quite as much ruthlessness?"

Doubt clouds your mind now. He was too thick to have caught on to your long play but she... she might have. Was your trap, the trick being that it was not a trap, leading you to walk unknowingly into hers? Your confidence flees along with the blood draining from your face to settle into a cold iron coin at the base of your spine. You look at her again and she smiles, kindly, and you realize you have completely lost your grip on the situation. Unwilling to risk uncertainty, you quietly turn your gaze from her to your remaining discs down at your lap and say, "Pass."

"A-ha! I knew it!" crows the cretinous rube to your right, incorrectly aligning this coincidence with his correlating supposition. "He would just destroy himself if he bids. Go on, Snow. Pass. You have to because you'd need both of his to make six."

"Very well, dearest," she purrs, "I shall pass as well."

Bjorn eagerly flips over his pair of yellow roses first. No surprise there as you took his skull in the last hand, rendering him as impotent as he is incompetent. Then he turns to his sister, gauchely reaching to turn her playing pieces over himself rather than allowing the courtesy of discovery to the owner. He hoots as a white rose blooms but then silence falls as a grinning pale skull surrounded by thorny vines looks up at him.

"I don't get it," he says, a simmering anger beginning to rise. "That's just going to knock me out. You'll never win like that!"

"Who said I was trying to win?" she asks with a gentle laugh containing no malice. While her brother stares at her revealed death's head, she slants her eyes to yours and you feel a warmth all over. Does she want a game continued just between you? That would be so... pleasant.

You begin to smile but your thoughts are interrupted as Bjorn lunges at your still hidden stack. Your hand is quicker, however, and you place a firm pressure on the top disc.

"I want to see what you had, Thorne," he says, in a tone that does not brook an argument. Undeterred, you offer one.

"No. You've already lost the bid. The undiscovered stay secret. That's the rule," you add with particular vehemence.

"You have to do what I tell you to do!" He has brought his other hand to pull up your wrist with his elder grip and you fiercely counter to add a second hand to cover and press down on the carved playing pieces.

Snow tries to call for calm but once again you find yourself wrestling down on the flagstones with him, reduced to pure brutality. You clutch the blue wooden discs to your chest as his frustration at losing has energized his arms into prying yours apart. Realizing he will inevitably win this contest, you escalate and bring a heel down hard upon his right tarsals. He lets you go with a cry of pain but to his credit does so with a savage shove that sends you careening into your vacated seat and the table. You let the discs fall along with the unplayed blues preserving your secret strategy from him while suffering a crack on the top of your skull on the table's edge as the price. An intense glow of pain fills the horizon of your vision and you sense him standing above you victoriously.

As your sight sharpens again you feel a rough weight on your chest. He has taken off his boots and thrown them upon you. "You scuffed it," he says. "Go and polish them. The game is over."

From the floor you look up and see the fury in his eyes and then you look for Snow. She has removed herself from the table and gazes through the window slit. Without turning to you, she says dully, "Another Turn, I think."


Three Marcs later you have finished the task. The foul-smelling black tallow invades your senses on the step outside the butlery. A blade of satisfaction at a task well done cuts through the bitterness of the act and your throbbing head. Not a speck of dust can be seen.

You eavesdrop as the older servants pass along the day's gossip. Primarily, it consists of their dreary existences and petty rivalries. Your interest is piqued, however, when you hear of a visitor who is presently received with their employer.

"Another tutor?" asks Grazi, a scullion. "What they need two for, now?"

"They ain't got the one from afore, 'zi," answers the young upstairs maid, Sada. "She got the tin tack last Cycle, didn't she, then?"

You fondly remember Caecilia Metella. Her lowland accent spoke of a life in the fields but she was brilliant. Self-taught, she'd won herself a research position in Oxonia, where she likely had returned. She'd recognized your attraction to the physiological and had gifted you with a skillful rendering of the human skeletal system. You kept it tucked safely inside a book of children's rhymes and practiced your memorization of the bones as you drifted to sleep on your cot.

"Aw, a pretty one," comments Grazi, frustratingly echoing your own thoughts.

"Too pretty for the Rose Lord not to notice, I'll bet Lady Barda sussed," hisses Sada, conspiratorially. "Don't need another b..."

She clumsily shuts up as you re-enter the household. "What are you, sneaking, boy?" she speaks to you authoritatively. "Hadn't you be getting Master Bjorn dressed for dinner?"

"You don't tell me what to do," you retort sullenly, pushing your way past the adults to reach the servants' stair.

"Don't you be putting on airs, you little..." she sputters, then mutters, "Just like his mum, Cory hold her soul."

"A pretty one," comments Grazi.


"Two," corrects the bear of a man dressed in expensive, yet unadorned finery upon the large carved wooden chair. "I have two children, Servius Agrippa." He looms above, fiercely shaggy eyebrows pressing down as if to join the enormous blond beard.

"I apologize, Lord Harrath," replies the bent, thin, older man in a toga and dusty travel cloak. "I must have misunderstood my colleague." He offers an abject bow of regret to both of the people who sit on the dais before him.

"My son's valet waits upon him at all times, including those of study," replies the sturdy and ruddily-healthy woman seated next to her husband. "The boy is a servant. Nothing more." This is said with a finality as to the subject.

"Nothing more than the one who completes all of that moron's assignments for him," you silently seethe from behind the cracked-open hidden door set to match the room's rich wood panels. You don't bother to count how many Marcs you've spent trying to perfect Bjorn's clumsy chirography, mimicking flaws of laziness and haste you would never accept in your own penmanship.

"Ah," the tutor brightens, "Surely that is the explanation, Lady Barda. My mistake." He fusses with a satchel of books and papers as he continues, "Now, as to subject matter. We will pursue the natural philosophies, of course, mathematics, language arts, etiquette, Imperial history..."

"Military history," adds Harrath, leaning his bulk forward and putting more weight to his words. "Tactics. Victories. Defeats."

The grey-haired scholar pauses, his mouth open. He wisely closes it again. "Of course, my Lord, of course. And for the girl?"

"The same," answers Harrath, glancing and getting an approving nod from Barda. "My daughter will learn all of these things as well."

The older man raises an eyebrow and replies with a hint of pleasant surprise, "So it shall be, my Lord and Lady. So it shall be."

"These are all of the books you have brought, Servius Agrippa?" asks Lady Barda, gesturing to the satchel at his side.

Agrippa smiles kindly. "These? These were merely the most necessary, Lady. They are my greatest treasure and never are far from my side. There will be more books arriving should this interview be to your satisfaction. Chests full. Several, in fact."

The Rose Lord and Lady take in one another's expressions and silently arrive at a decision as long-bonded couples are to do. "Just so," says Harrath. "Please, send for the books. Your rooms here should have sufficient space for them."

You close your eyes and lean against the stone wall of the hidden staircase. A wave of pleasant anticipation sweeps over you and momentarily washes away the dull pounding near the lump on top of your head. You focus on the known facts. Several means at least three. Calculating the volume of an average chest, purely below the lid, and the average size tome, while accounting for the fact that the weight of a full chest of books would be too much to lift, you determine this must mean at least... six score books? The vision of such a paradise fills you with joy and a smile forms from ear to ear there in the darkened stair. You steady your breathing and turn your attention back to the conversation.

"... to find the splendor of your gardens was not merely a rumor," says Servius Agrippa. "To grow anything in this season is remarkable but the breadth and vibrancy and variety of flora is simply inexplicable!"

"Our predecessor in this keep was a powerful enchanter," replies Harrath, coldly and stolidly. "He did something... unnatural."

"Ah," replies the scholar, following the signal to dampen his display of enthusiasm.

"The gardens are beautiful, sir, however they have grown," soothes Lady Barda. She indicates a pink flower clasp at her cloak. "We are known for our roses."

"Thorne!" comes a youthful bellow from several floors above, along with the aggrieved ringing of the servant bell. "I need my boots! Hurry up!"

You scowl and silently close the hidden door. All vision of the coming library vanishes as the claxon of the bell reawakens intense pain in your head. With pleasure, just before emerging into Bjorn's chambers, you add your spit to the shine of his boot.


One point of delivery of blood from the heart to the brain. Oh, so very gently, you lay a finger upon the boy's neck and feel for the carotid artery, the pulse of the healthy and strong scion. He had ale tonight again. You can smell it. No doubt drowning his sorrows at having to attend studies again.

One precise cut to the tiniest of red ropes and death is near certain. Even should a healer come within a split-Marc, the damage to the brain would undoubtedly be permanently disabling. Unfit to live, he would likely long for death.

You are tired after finishing the cleaning and laundry, scrubbing out the basins, preparing the clothes for next Turn. But you never neglect your nightly ritual standing at his bedside. What is strength? What is seniority? What is birthright? What is any of it worth when all can be taken so quickly? Every creature from the merest dumb beast to the mightiest emperor lives only to the whim of fate, of luck, the turn of a disc. One can be so close to having all and the slightest difference takes it all away and leaves one with nothing.

He stirs and you remove your finger.

Zero.

[aryana_moonsong]

The young waif of a girl scuttled along the rooftop effortlessly, one eye watching below for the town guard. She had done this so many times that she stepped with sure-footed steps, avoiding the tiles that were loose. After a while, she stopped, perched behind a smoking chimney that concealed her all the better.

She, herself, was dressed not in anything one would normally expect a young girl to wear. Her outfit consisted of tight-fitting black pants and top, the better to conceal her against the darkest of nights. Though only knowing ten summers, she was already an accomplished roof-walker, bringing home baubles and trinkets to her Da just so they could eat.

Now she sat, crouched, waiting for the sun to set so she could make her way into Lord Turner's house and collect the newly acquired gems he got from his recent trade of spices. She had not told her Da of this heist for she wanted to surprise him with how independant she had become. She had learned of Lord Turner's new found fortune quite by accident as she sat in the local inn, enjoying a rare treat, a lemon tart, that she actually had been able to buy with her own coin.

"Da will surely be impressed after I bring these gems home. Maybe then, he will finally start teaching me how pick the pockets of the local gentry." Aryana thought to herself as she watched the sun finally dip below the horizen. "I know I can do this" She murmured to herself as she looked down over the edge of the roof to make sure there were no guards hanging about or patroling.

With a final sigh, she carefully moved to the upper window beside her, knowing that Lord Turner and his family were supposed to be out this eve, attending a soiree with the intention of getting his eldest daughter married off. As quiet as a shadow, she managed to get the window unlocked and swing it open, though she cringed as it creaked, causing her to freeze in place for several split-marcs, before she dared move. As carefully as possibe, she entered the Lord's house through the window, emerging into his bedroom

Taking a moment to orieant herself to the blackness around her, she finally makes her move, tip-toeing to the center of the room and grinning gleefully as she finds the picture she had heard referenced. It was a hideous portrait of some older woman, perhaps Turner's mother, but it was what was supposed to be behind it that held Aryana's interest. She crept over and gently removed the painting, delighted to find a safe hidden behind it. "Do these nobles never learn?" She chortles to herself as she begins working on breaking the safe open.

After a few tense moments, Aryana has the safe open. She grins as she rises on her tiptoes to find the contents of the safe though her grin quickly turns to dismay as she finds it empty. "What in the....?" She says to herself as she looks around frantically. Finding nothing in the safe, she moves around the bedroom, desperately looking for anything of value. She starts to snatch up the Lady's jewelry, stuffing it into her pouches as she suddenly pauses. A faint sound.a footstep on the landing!

Aryana starts to panic. "I can't be caught!" She says softly to no one as she runs towards the window. Before she can start to climb out, the door to the chamber opens and a maid enters, staring at the retreating figure of Aryana for a surprised moment before screaming her head off. "Thief! Thief!" She cries as Aryana scrambles out the open window as quickly as she can and sidles down the roof, running through the streets back towards her home.

After taking a very roundabout way home, she finally arrives as the moon stands high in the star-strewn sky. Tired, weary and trembling, she enters the one story, three room home she knows so well. "Da! Da! Are ye home?" I have some jewels for ye!"

She looks around and managed a tired smile as her Da emerges from his room. She runs over and hugs him tightly, her fear of almost being caught catching up with her. Her Da hugs her back and they sit at the table and talk, while she shows him the jewelry she grabbed. As they talk, he works on making some a venison stew alongside some homemade bread.

"You did good girl. I be right proud of you, even if ye almost got yerself caught. Eating good we will for the next cycle at least. During then, I be teachin' ye to do the pick pocketing" Her Da told her as they ate well for once.

That night, Aryana went to bed, sleep coming quickly with a rare full belly, dreaming of the future her and her Da would carve for themselves, doing the pick-pocket and roof-walking. It was one the last few good nights she would have.