Ack really really sorry that took so long. I had some midterms and went camping and -insert more excuses here- and tbh took me a while to come up with something that I didn't want to delete as soon as a wrote. Hopefully wont happen again. Hopefully this stays alive? Cheers!
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the universe is grand, but life is grander
Most Recent Posts
Jesma was a rotten liar. This had come as something as a surprise; there had been few occasions that called for lying in her life so far, and when it had come to such, the victim had always been her father; who had always been perhaps too distracted to notice his daughter’s change in compaction or sudden interest in her stained fingertips. Then again, it hadn’t helped that the smoke came from her room. Or what had been her room for two nights. Everything made of wood, never had she been in such an impractical place. If just the desk had been given a stone or even glass top – everything could have been avoided. As it was the desk, the chair, the floor, the bed, even the damned window frame caught ablaze and no sooner had she left the building, coughing and stomping smoke off her trousers then she found herself pinched between two city guards and on the wrong end an ill-tempered in-keeper’s vindictive glare. It was clear no one knew what to do with her at first, aside from disbelieve every excuse she offered; the deemed her a Halfling and dwarf blood was made for mines and didn’t see much issue sticking her with the rest of their prisoners. But not before giving her a good wash; if all of her saved worldly possessions hadn’t just been taken and she hadn’t been condemned to spending an indeterminate amount of time laboring in the damp underground she might have found it amusing. The water had been cold; and only a single bucket given, but the hard sour-smelling soap worked well enough to get the soot and ash from her hair. It had been her hands which concerned the guards most however; first she had been sent back to wash them again, and again returned coloured black form fingertips past the wrists. A guard followed her in after, and attempted to clean them himself, until his own palms where pink and raw. There had then been the question as to if she was diseased. Jesma had not responded to their questions, but watched mutely as they argued, swinging her legs under the bench she had been told to wait on.
A few hours after being shown to her cell Jesma questioned why they bothered washing her at all. Hair had begun to clung to her face wetting again from cold sweat the musty air caused, and he skin was already had a thin coating of grime that crawled to the back of her throat with each breath. The first three meals she had refused to eat out of resentment. By the fourth, it was clear no one noticed of cared much if she ate her food; but she had worked her first shift in the pits and insolence there was very much noted. Meager by some standards the food had suited Jesma well enough; she was accustomed to small portions and her stature didn’t demand much nourishment. The work was much different and not something she was ever able to get used to regardless of however many days she had lost track of during her stay at Arsdent’s Pit.
‘Skyview’ As she liked to call the mine where she and a handful of prisoners toiled today was darker than usual. The sun was just disappearing behind the line of the narrow hole reaching all the way to the surface; bleeding to a red sky. Sunset, so they had been digging east perhaps north-east. She wondered if they would get to the ocean or perhaps even go under it.
“Girl” Jesma didn’t stand straight or even stop scratching the rat bite on her shoulder, only peered over to one of the two guards standing some ten feet away. Guards where more or less indistinguishable all where the same height as far as she was concerned; taller. They all wore the same uniform if varying degrees of order, and most wore a cloth around most of their face, to keep out the smell. Of miners or prisoners? She had been foolish enough to ask that once. The cloths where the easiest identifiers, typically, thought the one that spoke to her now had a very large boil forming on the tip of his nose that she couldn’t seem to look away from.
“Girl, you come with us.” The workers had all stopped, she realized, suddenly hearing the near silence; the absence of metal on stone. A meal would be at the cell soon then, and being personally escorted did not typically mean the usual destination.
“Something special for dinner then?” Boil didn’t appreciate the comment, it was difficult to see from here height and distance but his eyes may had narrowed. The other guard, with what might have once been a blue cloth round his face stood from leaning against the wall, beaconed then turned to walked away. It irked Jesma that he would take it for granted that she would follow, but follow she did, picking up her pickaxe (a quarter her size and nearly a third her weight) and dragging it behind her.
“A bath then? Can I really rank worse than Therber?” She sniffed her stained shirt, but whatever sense of smell she may have had was gone. Somewhat blessedly she mused. One guard, she suspected the one with the boil but they had their backs turned making them once again indistinguishable muttered something to the other and they continued walking.
”Or perhaps our warden, the sweet angel of mercy himself, has granted my leave of his pit of justice” To her own amazement, that remark was met with a snort.
[”Aye girl, three months and nine days, we’re full up and you’re getting out” Something in the way the guard said the words stopped Jesma from rejoicing. That and her own disbelief. It was hard to maintain and hope or optimism in the pits; few truly believed they would ever get out. Three months. Her mouth was very dry, and she had a sudden urge to sit down but didn’t dare lose pace with the taller men. It was impossible to track proper days without seeing the sky often; time was measured by work shifts and meals. No one in their party of three said another word until reaching a solid wood door at the end of a hall. Jesma held her breath as the handle turned and it opened, in case anyone heard her breathing and suddenly realized their mistake.
It was a bit of a blur for a moment, a clean room with proper walls and men dressed in more than prisoner’s rags, not all guards either; some in proper provincial clothes. Then she had been whisked away and found herself once again naked and alone in a room staring into a bucket of water, soap in hand. Trousers, tunic, and even shoes (Shoes!) from another life lying in the corner. It took a good deal of willpower not to run over to them straight away. Instead, every inch was meticulously scrubbed, every hair rinsed of sweat and dust and the callouses that had formed on her feet soaked and softened. Cold as the water may have been, Jesma felt like a dream walking out of that room; wearing her old clothing that now hung somewhat looser then it had before. She was sat down before a very large dark wooden desk behind which sat a rather plump mustached man with a red face. Before he even began speaking Jesma had stopped listening; just to her left sat a smile pile of items. Her items.
”Might I have some water?” The man seemed only mildly surprised at her interruption before nodding to a guard and continuing to drone on about ‘public obligations’ and ‘second offences’. The vials where there, as was the journal, and a small tin, even the watch (which she had expected to be stolen) remained, and amazingly most wonderfully and impossibly placed-barely-an-arms-length-away; her pistol. Not a scrap of money on the table, not even a line of credit to her name. But she had belongings. More than tattered clothes and a pickaxe she could barely swing; things she had made and where of home.
A few hours after being shown to her cell Jesma questioned why they bothered washing her at all. Hair had begun to clung to her face wetting again from cold sweat the musty air caused, and he skin was already had a thin coating of grime that crawled to the back of her throat with each breath. The first three meals she had refused to eat out of resentment. By the fourth, it was clear no one noticed of cared much if she ate her food; but she had worked her first shift in the pits and insolence there was very much noted. Meager by some standards the food had suited Jesma well enough; she was accustomed to small portions and her stature didn’t demand much nourishment. The work was much different and not something she was ever able to get used to regardless of however many days she had lost track of during her stay at Arsdent’s Pit.
‘Skyview’ As she liked to call the mine where she and a handful of prisoners toiled today was darker than usual. The sun was just disappearing behind the line of the narrow hole reaching all the way to the surface; bleeding to a red sky. Sunset, so they had been digging east perhaps north-east. She wondered if they would get to the ocean or perhaps even go under it.
“Girl” Jesma didn’t stand straight or even stop scratching the rat bite on her shoulder, only peered over to one of the two guards standing some ten feet away. Guards where more or less indistinguishable all where the same height as far as she was concerned; taller. They all wore the same uniform if varying degrees of order, and most wore a cloth around most of their face, to keep out the smell. Of miners or prisoners? She had been foolish enough to ask that once. The cloths where the easiest identifiers, typically, thought the one that spoke to her now had a very large boil forming on the tip of his nose that she couldn’t seem to look away from.
“Girl, you come with us.” The workers had all stopped, she realized, suddenly hearing the near silence; the absence of metal on stone. A meal would be at the cell soon then, and being personally escorted did not typically mean the usual destination.
“Something special for dinner then?” Boil didn’t appreciate the comment, it was difficult to see from here height and distance but his eyes may had narrowed. The other guard, with what might have once been a blue cloth round his face stood from leaning against the wall, beaconed then turned to walked away. It irked Jesma that he would take it for granted that she would follow, but follow she did, picking up her pickaxe (a quarter her size and nearly a third her weight) and dragging it behind her.
“A bath then? Can I really rank worse than Therber?” She sniffed her stained shirt, but whatever sense of smell she may have had was gone. Somewhat blessedly she mused. One guard, she suspected the one with the boil but they had their backs turned making them once again indistinguishable muttered something to the other and they continued walking.
”Or perhaps our warden, the sweet angel of mercy himself, has granted my leave of his pit of justice” To her own amazement, that remark was met with a snort.
[”Aye girl, three months and nine days, we’re full up and you’re getting out” Something in the way the guard said the words stopped Jesma from rejoicing. That and her own disbelief. It was hard to maintain and hope or optimism in the pits; few truly believed they would ever get out. Three months. Her mouth was very dry, and she had a sudden urge to sit down but didn’t dare lose pace with the taller men. It was impossible to track proper days without seeing the sky often; time was measured by work shifts and meals. No one in their party of three said another word until reaching a solid wood door at the end of a hall. Jesma held her breath as the handle turned and it opened, in case anyone heard her breathing and suddenly realized their mistake.
It was a bit of a blur for a moment, a clean room with proper walls and men dressed in more than prisoner’s rags, not all guards either; some in proper provincial clothes. Then she had been whisked away and found herself once again naked and alone in a room staring into a bucket of water, soap in hand. Trousers, tunic, and even shoes (Shoes!) from another life lying in the corner. It took a good deal of willpower not to run over to them straight away. Instead, every inch was meticulously scrubbed, every hair rinsed of sweat and dust and the callouses that had formed on her feet soaked and softened. Cold as the water may have been, Jesma felt like a dream walking out of that room; wearing her old clothing that now hung somewhat looser then it had before. She was sat down before a very large dark wooden desk behind which sat a rather plump mustached man with a red face. Before he even began speaking Jesma had stopped listening; just to her left sat a smile pile of items. Her items.
”Might I have some water?” The man seemed only mildly surprised at her interruption before nodding to a guard and continuing to drone on about ‘public obligations’ and ‘second offences’. The vials where there, as was the journal, and a small tin, even the watch (which she had expected to be stolen) remained, and amazingly most wonderfully and impossibly placed-barely-an-arms-length-away; her pistol. Not a scrap of money on the table, not even a line of credit to her name. But she had belongings. More than tattered clothes and a pickaxe she could barely swing; things she had made and where of home.
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