[m, p] our blood, our grace

Artemisia Eternity · 03-01-2012, 03:39 PM

[html]

515 → I stole Molca ;O; Mild PP, as well. Lemme know if you want anything changed!

Despite his near-inability to speak English, Khirot had explained as best he could at her request to know more about the weir that was being built under her mother's instruction. According to him, they could be used to a few different ends; slowing the overall flow, making the waters accessible by boats, and preventing flooding were amongst the most common of them. Though he'd warned her that they could also be quite dangerous to swimmers because of the crest, Artemisia remained indifferent toward him. He was helpful, but was not her family, not the way Salsola thought of family.

For nearly three hours now she'd been practicing her ruins and letters with absolute diligence. The thick beams of her favorite abandoned ruin made her feel safe, and there was only a single entrance which made it easy to keep an eye on anyone who came and went. Only when her mother's slave, Molcaxitl—who she tended to thing of fondly, as opposed to the rest of the slaves—framed herself in the entryway and reminded her that she'd wanted to see the weir today, did she throw a large bowl of water over the fire pit and wordlessly hand her pamphlets off to the older woman with a curt nod. She envied the woman's bright eyes, but would never mention such a thing. Though she believed her own eyes weren't as nice, she had something going on behind them. More often than not she wondered how intelligent her mother's slave was. She was terrible when it came to Arte and her sisters, easily convinced of lies when Eris' name was mentioned, and seemed dim overall.

Only moments ago the ruin had been belching heavy black smoke from the slow-burning fire she'd made to keep herself warm; now the air and sky were clear, but chilled by winter's firm grip. It would remain cold for a long time to come, she thought. At the urging of Moca, she headed in the direction of Pesce Creek after reminding the older woman to remain a distance behind her. Close enough to be helpful should danger fall upon them, but far enough away that she felt liberated and free. She was, after all, the largest and held the most potential; with that came with certain expectations. She didn't need the dimwit's nannying.

She arrived in time to witness the death of the pristine white lamb, but hung back to watch the end of the ritual. No pity flourished in her chest for the little beast. It didn't know what it was to live, having been snatched up by her mother so quickly. Maybe if it'd been older she would have felt an inkling of depression as the liver fell into the embers, but she'd never know. Only when it was complete and she was nearly sure that her presence wouldn't be a bother did she step forward to run a finger along the muscle along her mother's neck and shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting manner, but also to let her know her daughter was there.

Login




Remember me Lost Password?