Questions

The servers are still down and I’m itching for some creative stuff. Another installment of “Questions” for you all! We all think before we drift off to sleep, and often we’ll tally lists or think about our day. Every question here is unlabeled, and not prefaced. Enjoy this tiny snippet into everyone’s innermost consciousness.

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I do love work. How can I ever give that up?

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It’s worth it. Right? What if I get hurt?

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Why did I come out here again? This is less and less something I want.

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Have I found my primrose?

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Will anyone ever be able to replace you? Do I really want to find someone who would?

Secrets & Candles: I Ain’t Crazy.

Skyrah sat in the shaft of light, tiny dust particles dancing in the afternoon sun’s glow. She squinted and focused on the lump of beeswax in front of her, taking the small pouch and carefully making a line of gold dust in the wax. Reverently re-tying it, she stashed it on her lap before molding the wax, painstakingly folding the dust into it without spilling any. Hands expertly twisted the length of the wax, creating glittering trails of gold throughout. They glinted, almost glowing in the already warm light she used to see her craft. Despite her concentration, only one phrase kept running through her head. Three little words. She repeated them to herself, like a mantra.

I ain’t crazy.

Last night, she woke up after letting the fire burn a little too low, and she was still warm. There was a fur there, covering her; a little pillow that smelled so good; a cloak so nice, she still hadn’t had the nerve to put it on yet. This little pouch of dust that sparkled like gold itself. She wasn’t crazy. No one else would’ve done this. The flower was just beautiful. Why a lily, though? She’d have to track someone smart down, like Ian or somewhat. He’d probably know a lot about flowers, he always smelled like ’em and he always was reading something smart-like. Hands twisted, almost entirely free of her thought process. They caressed the silky smooth surface, flattening the candle into a long block. Sky cut the wick to the right length, lovingly setting it in the proper place before beginning to roll the candle’s final shape.

I ain’t crazy.

Long and thin. That’s how this candle should look. Graceful. Sparkling mysteriously. Nothing but the vaguely translucent white wax and golden specks. Once she finally had the desired shape, she wrapped it in some scrap paper, to protect from dust, and let it set in the dark coolness under the dresser. The small pouch of dust, half-used, was stashed in her drawer. She didn’t have much in the way of clothes to fill it, the pouch looking tiny in the mostly unused space. That’s when Sky turned her attention to the cloak. It was soft and warm…it even had holes for her arms. It was by far the nicest piece of clothing she’d ever had. Luned’s dresses were nice, and she even let Sky touch them, but those weren’t hers. This was hers.

I ain’t crazy.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled it to her chest and hugged it for a while. She finally allowed herself to pry it from her grasp and hold it out before her. A ripple of fabric fell almost to the floor. It was long enough – even for the strikingly tall young woman. One large button held it together. It was warm enough to almost be a blanket…at least, it looked warmer than her blanket. If you could call what she’d been using a blanket. Slowly unbuttoning it, she dared a look around the empty room before slipping it over her bony shoulders. Soft warmth enveloped her almost immediately. Her hands slipped through the holes, and she re-buttoned it. Her hands ran along the brown cloth, fingers delighting in the sensation. She finally had proof. She was wearing it. Real proof. In the privacy of her currently empty room, Sky let a goofy, crooked smile crack.

I ain’t crazy.

Through Another’s Eyes

The ever-lovely amimain with another prompt. Didn’t do all my characters this time, but these two (particularly Lori’s) just spoke to me. :3

We get chances to develop our characters’ personalities all the time, but it’s rarer that we get to develop how our characters are perceived by others. Write about your character from someone else’s point of view. That someone else cannot be any character that you play.

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She nodded politely to the woman, her fake smile softening some when her eyes drifted over the baby sack. Such a weird little sack, but it fit such a weird woman. Kind of practical, when you really thought about it: hands were free, but the baby was still pressed against you. The baby inside was absolutely adorable. It made sense, though. Such a gorgeous and exotic woman would bring forth such a beautiful babe. Shaking her head as slight jealousy built, Dori Wheeler made her way back from the road.

There was nothing wrong with the woman, except for her being a widow already. Such a shame! When she said who the father was, that shocked Dori. Michael Lawson went up north and married himself one of them Lossoths. That was right weird, but yet fit. He was always about going off and finding stuff. She was a right sorta woman, though. Mourned him properly, a whole year, and seemed keen on respectable work while she settled herself into life here. Still didn’t know why she didn’t take the baby up north again, back to her family; but who knows. Those people way up there were beyond Dori’s understanding: who would ever want to live in permanent snow, eating fatty meat and having to stay huddled around a fire? Ugh! Just the thought was troubling.

That baby was better off here. Nice, normal weather; nice, normal folks. Nice and average. Hopefully that woman would find a man again. No shame in marrying again when you’re widowed. Not after a year and not when you’ve got such a little one. Trick there was finding a man willing to marry a woman already having a babe. Men were proud creatures – she smiled fondly to her own husband’s set of clothes at that thought – and it was hard for them to accept a kid not of their blood as their own. She was darn pretty enough that Dori was sure even that Too…jah? Too… uh? Bah, she couldn’t pronounce that weird name. She was sure she could snag someone, even with broken Westron. Too pretty not to attract someone’s eye, no doubt.

Must be nice to be so pretty. She ran her hands through her brown hair with a sigh. Time to make some bread. She rolled up her sleeves, pondering the latest bit of gossip.

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Emmett Beetly looked through his window, across the street. His neighbor slowly – almost comically – pulled plank after plank of wood into the house. No woman should be able to do that; they were sturdy pieces of wood, a man should be helping her bring them inside. Where was that foreigner she was living with? Oh, pardon him: her husband. They got married. Most in town were convinced that their gallivanting about had gotten her with child, so they married quietly…those rumors hadn’t been proven true. Yet. She stayed slim as ever, almost a month later. And hauling wood. No self-respecting pregnant woman would haul wood around, even her.

She was a walking scandal these days. Bah, most days? Try her whole life. He almost felt bad for her. Well, at first. Having no ma, supposedly – supposedly! – she was some foreigner as well, but no one ever knew. Crazy Rojer Snowberry just left one day, and years later just showed up with a kid. Never married again; according to him he did marry her ma, but no one around here believed him. Poor Lori Snowberry, stuck with her da’s reddish hair and being really clumsy. People still thought there was Dale in her da’s family. Red hair wasn’t Bree-hair.

These days, she brought all the scandal on herself. Did ever since she ran off for a whole year and lived with the Hobbits. Most were wary when she moved into Wildore, but they didn’t say anything. She stayed to herself, worked in her little garden, and didn’t bother nobody. Just an old maid. Like she should be, at her age. Minus that woodworking and whatnot. It was bad enough she walked around wearing pants most of the time, going to the Pony and Cask, drinking more than any respectable woman should drink. Then that foreign man started coming around: that was the talk of the town when everyone realized it. That was not something you did: living with a man, not married? Everyone knew what was going on there, too. They weren’t stupid around here. On top of that, not only was he not from Bree, people said he was a sailor on top of it. Rowdy, unreliable types, they were.

If a woman her age got it into her head she was somehow court-able, the least she could do was find herself a nice, local widower. Not some questionable sailor from another land. At least she started wearing dresses sometimes, and wasn’t drinking so much. Days like today, though…it was like a relapse. Tunic and pants, hauling large pieces of timber around, sitting on the stoop in the freezing cold as she drank deeply from one of her large mugs. It wasn’t right. Even if they were all married proper-like, she should be getting with child and cooking and wearing dresses. Indoors. None of this still working nonsense. Bah. He shook his head. Nothing to be done for it. At least they did the respectable thing and got hitched. Nothing anyone could say now. He went back to scrubbing the dishes.