02-21-2011, 11:17 AM
((I figured I should start at the beginning. So This story will be ongoing for a bit. This is the first part, the earliest Eonia remembers. It is the story of how she and her sister became separated to begin with.))
The night was clear and cold, wind whistling across the hard packed firmament of Durator. Hard, dried bits of bramble and dead brush rolled in the wind under the star-spangled, night sky. In the distance, someone walking alone out here might hear the cry the scorpid searching out food or the snorting calls of the boar roaming the grounds. It seemed almost too quiet, the Quillboar not making their usual racket of in-fighting and riotous partying on Horde supplies.
Ten year-old Eonia Attaboli sat on the floor in her little room of the hut she shared with her parents and her infant sister, Kwami. It was late and she worked by the light of a small candle stub that had been discarded by one of the scribes in a hut near hers. There was very little of the waxen light source left, but she utilized it by scooping the melted wax back into the opening left by the flame to make it burn just a little longer.
Sheâd been working this way for weeks, after her mother, Chakti, had given her the bolts of silk cloth. Sheâd been proud to hear her mother praise her workmanship so highly stating that she was a âgifted seamstressâ at only ten. Eonia had set to work on the gown immediately, and her sister was nearing her first birthday. Sheâd have the garment done well before morning at this rate and she could present it to her mother on the morning light, just in time for the birthday celebrations. Finally as the candle light flickered then went out, Eonia placed the last stitch. She drifted off to sleep, the floor cool against her cheek.
Sometime in the night, Eonia became aware of the intense heat surrounding her. The floor, no longer cool, felt as if it were burning the flesh from her face. Was she dreaming? Had she heard screams? From where did they come? She jolted upright from the floor; the finished gown lay sprawled in front of her. The air was filled with the rancid stench of smoke. Had she fallen asleep with the candle lit and caught the room on fire? No, it had gone out. She remembered finishing the last stitch in the semi-darkness of the candleâs last flickers.
Rushing to the window, she peaked out. Near the village center, where the campfires burned in the night, she saw her mother fighting. She could see her there chanting and shooting flame from her fingertips at several human raiders. Eonia felt panic rise within her. She snatched the gown off the floor and ran for her sisterâs room. Sleeping. She was sleeping.
Without really thinking much, she tucked the gown inside the folds of Kwamiâs linen blankets and snatched her from the cradle. She was ten, untrained in anything but seam work, but sheâd fight. Sheâd find a safe place for Kwami and sheâd fight. What choice was there? She could hear the clash of swords and daggers steel against steel, the sounds of wood hitting flesh and hear the screams and shouts rending the night.
Running back to her own room, she collected what she could in a small pouch, and paused just long enough to tuck the last remaining scrap of silk within her robes. With a final look she strode off into the night. She had to find a safe place to put Kwami so she could help fight off the human raiders. Why were they here?
The night was clear and cold, wind whistling across the hard packed firmament of Durator. Hard, dried bits of bramble and dead brush rolled in the wind under the star-spangled, night sky. In the distance, someone walking alone out here might hear the cry the scorpid searching out food or the snorting calls of the boar roaming the grounds. It seemed almost too quiet, the Quillboar not making their usual racket of in-fighting and riotous partying on Horde supplies.
Ten year-old Eonia Attaboli sat on the floor in her little room of the hut she shared with her parents and her infant sister, Kwami. It was late and she worked by the light of a small candle stub that had been discarded by one of the scribes in a hut near hers. There was very little of the waxen light source left, but she utilized it by scooping the melted wax back into the opening left by the flame to make it burn just a little longer.
Sheâd been working this way for weeks, after her mother, Chakti, had given her the bolts of silk cloth. Sheâd been proud to hear her mother praise her workmanship so highly stating that she was a âgifted seamstressâ at only ten. Eonia had set to work on the gown immediately, and her sister was nearing her first birthday. Sheâd have the garment done well before morning at this rate and she could present it to her mother on the morning light, just in time for the birthday celebrations. Finally as the candle light flickered then went out, Eonia placed the last stitch. She drifted off to sleep, the floor cool against her cheek.
Sometime in the night, Eonia became aware of the intense heat surrounding her. The floor, no longer cool, felt as if it were burning the flesh from her face. Was she dreaming? Had she heard screams? From where did they come? She jolted upright from the floor; the finished gown lay sprawled in front of her. The air was filled with the rancid stench of smoke. Had she fallen asleep with the candle lit and caught the room on fire? No, it had gone out. She remembered finishing the last stitch in the semi-darkness of the candleâs last flickers.
Rushing to the window, she peaked out. Near the village center, where the campfires burned in the night, she saw her mother fighting. She could see her there chanting and shooting flame from her fingertips at several human raiders. Eonia felt panic rise within her. She snatched the gown off the floor and ran for her sisterâs room. Sleeping. She was sleeping.
Without really thinking much, she tucked the gown inside the folds of Kwamiâs linen blankets and snatched her from the cradle. She was ten, untrained in anything but seam work, but sheâd fight. Sheâd find a safe place for Kwami and sheâd fight. What choice was there? She could hear the clash of swords and daggers steel against steel, the sounds of wood hitting flesh and hear the screams and shouts rending the night.
Running back to her own room, she collected what she could in a small pouch, and paused just long enough to tuck the last remaining scrap of silk within her robes. With a final look she strode off into the night. She had to find a safe place to put Kwami so she could help fight off the human raiders. Why were they here?