Post by Levedara on Nov 21, 2009 11:34:27 GMT -5
Ceia Sirra watched her daughter play in the dusty dirt before her rocking chair. As her fingers deftly worked needle through cloth to etch a rosy pink flower across the weave she couldn't help but smile at the small girls antics. Using discarded twine and thread the child had taken to fastening sticks together in an artful fashion creating herself toys representing stiff legged animals. The girl managed to create haphazard representations of horses, cats, dogs and her latest effort being much more extreme, a rough shod dragon. It's oversized wings had tips that touched the ground to support them, it's long neck tied to the upper wingtips to keep it from drooping forward. For a girl of only six summers her boundless creativity still managed to surprise her mother who had come to see a bright future for her only daughter. A future Ceia intended to foster. Rocking on her chair as she stitched she spoke seriously down to her progeny.
"Now Mia, I'd like you to tell me a story. Would you tell me of the Mantled King? Ensure it's an artful telling, and don't leave anything out." The young girl was oft easily distracted with play, a habit that Ceia hoped would be broken in the summers passing. Mia sat back and grinned up at her mother as she carefully tucked strands of her platinum blonde hair behind her ears, revealing the freckle dappled cheeks still rounded with youth under her bright green eyes. Mia was a striking image of her father in that sense, who's wide enthusiastic eyes had taken Ceia's heart the first day they met. The girl cleared her throat as she began biting her lip, ceasing the nibbling habit as her mother tut tutted, and launched into a well practiced tale.
"It was in yesteryear, long ago passing, that Aencar, one day to be known as the Mantled King was raised by Elves in the deep of Battledale ... "
~ ~
It was battledale that Mia lived in and as she grew in age her mother taught her well the ballads and stories of the land. Though seamstress by profession Ceia was a historian in hobby, her family one noble she had enjoyed a well schooled upbringing. It was love that took her away to settle in quiet lands as a blade smith's wife dutifully knitting and stitching as needed for home and for profit.
They lived on a ranch some miles out of Essembra and while they made weekly visits to the trade post they otherwise had few words with others. Mia grew to know elves far better than humans due to this, for in the unfettered woods that spread wide behind their tidy farmlands there was a pair of the elusive wood folk. They had a kindly relationship with the Sirra homestead and Mia was fortunate to trade her passion for song and dance with the elves for lessons in language and by the age of 12 she spoke not only the Damaran and Chodathain tongues but Elven and the more elusive Sylvan as well.
~~
Mia's concentration was shattered by the hushed argument that broke out between her parents. She looked up towards the barn door from her place at the etching table. The delicate metal needle she held was worn and corroded towards its thin point, the weak enchantment staving off the worst, but not all of the hungered chewing of the metal eating acid it was regularly coated in. She glanced down at her work and as she struggled to focus, the etching of delicate words down the spine of a fine rapier, she couldn't help but heave a weary sigh. Her father had been intently teaching her the work of blade smithing. She'd spent a vast majority of the lessons learning to wrap hilts, bind tangs and use etching equipment. She'd learned about the hammering and pounding of metal to some degree but as she inherited the frail frame of her mother, she was not taking well to the difficult labor. While it frustrated her father to no end he was intent on turning his daughter into the finest blade crafter in all the dales. There'd be no barding for her if he could help it!
And so the argument outside the barn pressed onward for Mia's mother had managed to get word through to one of the bards that was expected to attend the Shieldmeet in but 5 days time. It was Ceia's expectation to send her daughter off to learn lore of land and begin a life full of grand sights she herself had been robbed of when she left the courts for the soft rolling lands she had come to love, if not for the wistful dreams of things she'd abandoned for her heart's desire. Yet her father was reluctant to let go of a daughter he cherished, for she was a frail thing, he'd often teased her in growing up that she resembled her twig made toys, and she was so easily struck ill in the wetter days. It would do no good for his dear flower to be parading about the land to wilt like one cut at the stem and left without water. Mia leaned close to her work and drew in the careful curved line to finish the rune. 'Evergreen Everonward' it said.
Years later Mia could be found laughing in a busy tavern as she watched in mild dismay while ale dripped down her canvas bringing to ruin the painting of the inn's barmaid bent low over a table. The liquid drained the color away from the painted man who's ale now puddled to the floor, the gluttonous gleam and feral grin depicted as his filthy hand reached for the wenches exposed bottom turned into something more akin to runny soup. Ah nothing for it, Mia spun away from her canvas, tugging the hand of the inebriated man and pulling him in to an awkward drink addled dance. There'd be laughter and song all night long, for that was what Mia wanted.
As time passed and Mia grew so did her passion for the arts as nothing warmed her more than to inspire those around her to laughter, to tears, to memory. She'd learned tales from many lands, sung with elves, men and dwarf alike, painted many times the inns and streets of which she'd wandered. Yet now, ten years since she'd left her home into the care of her first lover, she began to yearn for something new. She'd heard of the plights in Cormyr and accustomed with several stories of the land she decided to set fourth seeking a new subject for her many time visited canvas. For battle and bravery seemed a noble thing and she thought with a smile, that she'd find it there.
"Now Mia, I'd like you to tell me a story. Would you tell me of the Mantled King? Ensure it's an artful telling, and don't leave anything out." The young girl was oft easily distracted with play, a habit that Ceia hoped would be broken in the summers passing. Mia sat back and grinned up at her mother as she carefully tucked strands of her platinum blonde hair behind her ears, revealing the freckle dappled cheeks still rounded with youth under her bright green eyes. Mia was a striking image of her father in that sense, who's wide enthusiastic eyes had taken Ceia's heart the first day they met. The girl cleared her throat as she began biting her lip, ceasing the nibbling habit as her mother tut tutted, and launched into a well practiced tale.
"It was in yesteryear, long ago passing, that Aencar, one day to be known as the Mantled King was raised by Elves in the deep of Battledale ... "
~ ~
It was battledale that Mia lived in and as she grew in age her mother taught her well the ballads and stories of the land. Though seamstress by profession Ceia was a historian in hobby, her family one noble she had enjoyed a well schooled upbringing. It was love that took her away to settle in quiet lands as a blade smith's wife dutifully knitting and stitching as needed for home and for profit.
They lived on a ranch some miles out of Essembra and while they made weekly visits to the trade post they otherwise had few words with others. Mia grew to know elves far better than humans due to this, for in the unfettered woods that spread wide behind their tidy farmlands there was a pair of the elusive wood folk. They had a kindly relationship with the Sirra homestead and Mia was fortunate to trade her passion for song and dance with the elves for lessons in language and by the age of 12 she spoke not only the Damaran and Chodathain tongues but Elven and the more elusive Sylvan as well.
~~
Mia's concentration was shattered by the hushed argument that broke out between her parents. She looked up towards the barn door from her place at the etching table. The delicate metal needle she held was worn and corroded towards its thin point, the weak enchantment staving off the worst, but not all of the hungered chewing of the metal eating acid it was regularly coated in. She glanced down at her work and as she struggled to focus, the etching of delicate words down the spine of a fine rapier, she couldn't help but heave a weary sigh. Her father had been intently teaching her the work of blade smithing. She'd spent a vast majority of the lessons learning to wrap hilts, bind tangs and use etching equipment. She'd learned about the hammering and pounding of metal to some degree but as she inherited the frail frame of her mother, she was not taking well to the difficult labor. While it frustrated her father to no end he was intent on turning his daughter into the finest blade crafter in all the dales. There'd be no barding for her if he could help it!
And so the argument outside the barn pressed onward for Mia's mother had managed to get word through to one of the bards that was expected to attend the Shieldmeet in but 5 days time. It was Ceia's expectation to send her daughter off to learn lore of land and begin a life full of grand sights she herself had been robbed of when she left the courts for the soft rolling lands she had come to love, if not for the wistful dreams of things she'd abandoned for her heart's desire. Yet her father was reluctant to let go of a daughter he cherished, for she was a frail thing, he'd often teased her in growing up that she resembled her twig made toys, and she was so easily struck ill in the wetter days. It would do no good for his dear flower to be parading about the land to wilt like one cut at the stem and left without water. Mia leaned close to her work and drew in the careful curved line to finish the rune. 'Evergreen Everonward' it said.
Years later Mia could be found laughing in a busy tavern as she watched in mild dismay while ale dripped down her canvas bringing to ruin the painting of the inn's barmaid bent low over a table. The liquid drained the color away from the painted man who's ale now puddled to the floor, the gluttonous gleam and feral grin depicted as his filthy hand reached for the wenches exposed bottom turned into something more akin to runny soup. Ah nothing for it, Mia spun away from her canvas, tugging the hand of the inebriated man and pulling him in to an awkward drink addled dance. There'd be laughter and song all night long, for that was what Mia wanted.
As time passed and Mia grew so did her passion for the arts as nothing warmed her more than to inspire those around her to laughter, to tears, to memory. She'd learned tales from many lands, sung with elves, men and dwarf alike, painted many times the inns and streets of which she'd wandered. Yet now, ten years since she'd left her home into the care of her first lover, she began to yearn for something new. She'd heard of the plights in Cormyr and accustomed with several stories of the land she decided to set fourth seeking a new subject for her many time visited canvas. For battle and bravery seemed a noble thing and she thought with a smile, that she'd find it there.