Angawen
09-11-2006, 05:09 PM
((WeRoWriGo - Tale about Angawen's contemplations of her promotion to Leiutenant. Helpful Critique welcome!))
The Mithril Braid
Angawen strode across the quiet calm of the pre-dawn Mystic ward. She gripped the bundle tightly in her left hand as she fished for her key in her belt pouch. Drawing the small twisted iron object out she quickly undid the locks on the front door of a small, dingy stone residence and let herself in.
The room inside was far cozier than the exterior let on. Two beds along the far wall, a small stone hearth and a table set for two were all the furnishings it held. Still it was crowded, packed with hunting trophies, rugs of fur and cloth, stacks of books and more than a couple stacks of dusty armor and weapons laying about. Angawen looked around, glad to find that her cousin, Agitha, was not home as of yet. She always preferred to do this alone, indeed she was relatively sure that Agitha herself was out celebrating in her own fashion.
Clearing a place at the table she laid down the bundle gently before turning away. She changed into a long grey woolen night shift embroidered with her clan’s crest over the heart, stowing her neatly folded Regimental uniform into the chest by her bedside. She lingered over the new spalders before setting them atop the folded tabard along with her company pin. Only after those items were safely stowed did she turn and sit before the bundle and opened it, withdrawing her tools. Three tiny clasps of the finest mithril, a small and highly polished mirror of truesilver and a comb wrought from a boar’s tusk and inlaid with copper and gold. She paused over the comb, running her calloused fingers along the edges of the runes that spelled out her name. After a moment’s reflection she set it to the side and lit a candle.
Taking up the comb once more she began to comb out her long blonde tresses. She’d bound them back as usual before the ceremony, controlled by the white ribbon that she’d cast on the floor. Now her hair flowed past her waist, studded with six tiny braids each about as big around as a child’s finger and clasped in three bands of metal. She paused to touch each one in turn and remember their meaning.
Copper bands for learning to read and write the Dwarven and Common tongues to her mother’s satisfaction. She closed her eyes and remembered her shaky child’s script, her mother’s proud face, and her first lesson in the tradition of her mother’s clan, the Longbraids.
Silver bands for learning to heal with the aid of the Light at her mother’s instruction, how proud she had been to have inherited her skills! The second braid placed at her mother’s gentle hands.
Iron bands to tribute her apprenticeship to the blacksmith’s trade under her father’s watchful gaze. A few burns in tribute also, but they had faded where the iron still shone dully amid her gold locks.
Gold bands on gold hair, the first she’d braided in herself upon reaching adulthood.
Iron again, for when she had gone off to war wearing the uniform of a Mountaineer of Ironforge. Those were hard years, her first away from home, and how those bands had helped her, reminded her of her duty and her past as well.
She paused over the last braid, another iron band, this one braided in quite recently, the bands still looked new and even a bit shiny. She rolled it between her fingers and smiled. This one was for her acceptance into the Ironforge Regiment when her enlistment with the Mountaineers had ended.
And now she came to a spot where there was no braid, this loose, unbound hair she took up and brushed with long slow strokes. Carefully she separated the strands, choosing the ones she wanted and setting the others aside. When she was satisfied with her choice she began to braid. With each nimble twist of her fingers she drew up all her memories of the night. She smelled ale and smoke from Brukk’s, the metallic scent of the Great Forge, the warm comforting smell of her freshly cleaned uniform. She heard the voices of her friends and leaders, their cheers and jubilations with the dull roar of the forge beyond. She could see the dazzling lights, the fireworks. She took in all these as she clasped on the first band if gleaming mithril. She remembered the joyful look on the faces of the other promoted Regimenters, their happy congratulations of each other, the camaraderie between them all. These memories she poured into the second band that she clasped about the braid. Finally she turned her mind to the tasks that lay yet before her, drudgery and paperwork to be sure, but also the satisfaction and pride in aiding her company and friends. As she clasped the last band about the end of the braid she whispered a prayer to the Light as she had for each of the others.
She dwelt on her memories for a moment longer and then laid down her comb. The candle had burned low now, and her own eyes were unwilling to stay open. She yawned hugely.
“Tha’s enough excitement fer one evenin’ ta be sure. Light be blessed ah’d best get some sleep while ah’m able!” With a sigh she blew out the candle and carried herself off for the night’s rest.
The Mithril Braid
Angawen strode across the quiet calm of the pre-dawn Mystic ward. She gripped the bundle tightly in her left hand as she fished for her key in her belt pouch. Drawing the small twisted iron object out she quickly undid the locks on the front door of a small, dingy stone residence and let herself in.
The room inside was far cozier than the exterior let on. Two beds along the far wall, a small stone hearth and a table set for two were all the furnishings it held. Still it was crowded, packed with hunting trophies, rugs of fur and cloth, stacks of books and more than a couple stacks of dusty armor and weapons laying about. Angawen looked around, glad to find that her cousin, Agitha, was not home as of yet. She always preferred to do this alone, indeed she was relatively sure that Agitha herself was out celebrating in her own fashion.
Clearing a place at the table she laid down the bundle gently before turning away. She changed into a long grey woolen night shift embroidered with her clan’s crest over the heart, stowing her neatly folded Regimental uniform into the chest by her bedside. She lingered over the new spalders before setting them atop the folded tabard along with her company pin. Only after those items were safely stowed did she turn and sit before the bundle and opened it, withdrawing her tools. Three tiny clasps of the finest mithril, a small and highly polished mirror of truesilver and a comb wrought from a boar’s tusk and inlaid with copper and gold. She paused over the comb, running her calloused fingers along the edges of the runes that spelled out her name. After a moment’s reflection she set it to the side and lit a candle.
Taking up the comb once more she began to comb out her long blonde tresses. She’d bound them back as usual before the ceremony, controlled by the white ribbon that she’d cast on the floor. Now her hair flowed past her waist, studded with six tiny braids each about as big around as a child’s finger and clasped in three bands of metal. She paused to touch each one in turn and remember their meaning.
Copper bands for learning to read and write the Dwarven and Common tongues to her mother’s satisfaction. She closed her eyes and remembered her shaky child’s script, her mother’s proud face, and her first lesson in the tradition of her mother’s clan, the Longbraids.
Silver bands for learning to heal with the aid of the Light at her mother’s instruction, how proud she had been to have inherited her skills! The second braid placed at her mother’s gentle hands.
Iron bands to tribute her apprenticeship to the blacksmith’s trade under her father’s watchful gaze. A few burns in tribute also, but they had faded where the iron still shone dully amid her gold locks.
Gold bands on gold hair, the first she’d braided in herself upon reaching adulthood.
Iron again, for when she had gone off to war wearing the uniform of a Mountaineer of Ironforge. Those were hard years, her first away from home, and how those bands had helped her, reminded her of her duty and her past as well.
She paused over the last braid, another iron band, this one braided in quite recently, the bands still looked new and even a bit shiny. She rolled it between her fingers and smiled. This one was for her acceptance into the Ironforge Regiment when her enlistment with the Mountaineers had ended.
And now she came to a spot where there was no braid, this loose, unbound hair she took up and brushed with long slow strokes. Carefully she separated the strands, choosing the ones she wanted and setting the others aside. When she was satisfied with her choice she began to braid. With each nimble twist of her fingers she drew up all her memories of the night. She smelled ale and smoke from Brukk’s, the metallic scent of the Great Forge, the warm comforting smell of her freshly cleaned uniform. She heard the voices of her friends and leaders, their cheers and jubilations with the dull roar of the forge beyond. She could see the dazzling lights, the fireworks. She took in all these as she clasped on the first band if gleaming mithril. She remembered the joyful look on the faces of the other promoted Regimenters, their happy congratulations of each other, the camaraderie between them all. These memories she poured into the second band that she clasped about the braid. Finally she turned her mind to the tasks that lay yet before her, drudgery and paperwork to be sure, but also the satisfaction and pride in aiding her company and friends. As she clasped the last band about the end of the braid she whispered a prayer to the Light as she had for each of the others.
She dwelt on her memories for a moment longer and then laid down her comb. The candle had burned low now, and her own eyes were unwilling to stay open. She yawned hugely.
“Tha’s enough excitement fer one evenin’ ta be sure. Light be blessed ah’d best get some sleep while ah’m able!” With a sigh she blew out the candle and carried herself off for the night’s rest.