Tshael
September 7th, 2007, 09:40 PM
((closed))
Nothing lasts forever, a wise woman had once told a young redheaded girl. The seasons gave up their crowns to the next in line with little fits, except for maybe winter who took the longest to let go. Flesh gave way to earth, fire to the air, the tides ebbed and flowed. There was a balance to everything, the woman had said and all life hangs within those arms. The child thought that she had understood the words of the sage, and in the way of the child who has no idea of the vast world beyond their circles, she did understand. Life, however, goes on and the child grew up to be a woman and a mother and it wasn’t really until a dry autumn morning, standing in the first-born lights of day, watching the last dying lights of the fire, that she understood. Nothing lasts forever. Not lives, not love, not dreams.
While she watched as the Silver Pub burned to dust, a stone-faced Tshael clutched a sleeping child to her breast, fighting back tears of rage and injustice. She wasn’t so naive that she’d dare to scream that it wasn’t fair. Althanas, and life at that, certainly weren’t fair. However, those childlike tendencies were coming alive so readily while she watched her home and livelihood dance away in warm, mockingly cheerful flames. In the inviting firelight, she could see several figures already. They, like she, set up their homes on the outskirts of the capitol city. Out here was just urban enough to draw steady customers, but remote enough that the chance of saving the building in the event of this situation was slim to none. Most of the faces were sympathetic, a few moving close enough to pat her on the shoulder and murmur their condolences.
The hours dwindled on, the breeze coming colder and colder at her back as the lumber receded into bare embers, and then nothing but scorched and blackened earth. It was a lucky thing, someone said, that the pub had been surrounded by unyielding clay and gravel. The farms were untouched, glowing amber with withering stalks of corn as the sun began to peak from the horizon. Nothing had been harmed, except for a pub. It had been early in the fire that the fear had reigned. As flames stroked alongside the barrels of rum and whiskey, balls of light exploded in the sky, tossing timber and glass. Tshael and a few shocked patrons had their share of scrapes and bumps, but otherwise most were unharmed. The wild idea of rebuilding in stone was flirting with Tshael’s mind - with the help of her sister and Lord Ithermoss she did OWN the land - but it was one comment, said on the very outskirts of the ravaged land, that caught her attention.
“This whole thing reeks of the Mob, I tell you what.”
As Tshael looked up to see who had spoken, a shadow darted away in the long light of morning to lose itself within the crowd. In that moment, everything changed.
Nothing lasts forever, a wise woman had once told a young redheaded girl. The seasons gave up their crowns to the next in line with little fits, except for maybe winter who took the longest to let go. Flesh gave way to earth, fire to the air, the tides ebbed and flowed. There was a balance to everything, the woman had said and all life hangs within those arms. The child thought that she had understood the words of the sage, and in the way of the child who has no idea of the vast world beyond their circles, she did understand. Life, however, goes on and the child grew up to be a woman and a mother and it wasn’t really until a dry autumn morning, standing in the first-born lights of day, watching the last dying lights of the fire, that she understood. Nothing lasts forever. Not lives, not love, not dreams.
While she watched as the Silver Pub burned to dust, a stone-faced Tshael clutched a sleeping child to her breast, fighting back tears of rage and injustice. She wasn’t so naive that she’d dare to scream that it wasn’t fair. Althanas, and life at that, certainly weren’t fair. However, those childlike tendencies were coming alive so readily while she watched her home and livelihood dance away in warm, mockingly cheerful flames. In the inviting firelight, she could see several figures already. They, like she, set up their homes on the outskirts of the capitol city. Out here was just urban enough to draw steady customers, but remote enough that the chance of saving the building in the event of this situation was slim to none. Most of the faces were sympathetic, a few moving close enough to pat her on the shoulder and murmur their condolences.
The hours dwindled on, the breeze coming colder and colder at her back as the lumber receded into bare embers, and then nothing but scorched and blackened earth. It was a lucky thing, someone said, that the pub had been surrounded by unyielding clay and gravel. The farms were untouched, glowing amber with withering stalks of corn as the sun began to peak from the horizon. Nothing had been harmed, except for a pub. It had been early in the fire that the fear had reigned. As flames stroked alongside the barrels of rum and whiskey, balls of light exploded in the sky, tossing timber and glass. Tshael and a few shocked patrons had their share of scrapes and bumps, but otherwise most were unharmed. The wild idea of rebuilding in stone was flirting with Tshael’s mind - with the help of her sister and Lord Ithermoss she did OWN the land - but it was one comment, said on the very outskirts of the ravaged land, that caught her attention.
“This whole thing reeks of the Mob, I tell you what.”
As Tshael looked up to see who had spoken, a shadow darted away in the long light of morning to lose itself within the crowd. In that moment, everything changed.