(This letter is under a read more because it’s full of profanity — Kim has very colorful language when truly angry.)
It’s been three weeks already and I only got one of your letters. It’s been real frustrating not knowing what’s going on, and now I’m pissed because I have to write you a real bad letter right off the bat. I’m sorry. I hope this actually reaches you. I’m just sending it to the city with your name on it, like you said.
First off: I’ll be fine, I’m healing, don’t worry. But it’s been a real shit week for me, having to deal with the Watch and pain and stuff.
So I was walking home after family dinner when some asshole ambushed me and shoved me between some buildings, trying to attack me. Well, I mean, he did attack me. Smashed my face and neck up good. Looks like I spilled purple dye all over my face. I managed to fight back after a bit, punched his head into the wall, but I hurt my hand doing it. Ran off to find someone from the Watch, but sliced myself bad on the way out. Found Sam patrolling, he managed to grab the fucker. So he got caught at least.
The healer said I broke m he broke my collarbone, my wrist is sprained real bad, and I’m going to have a nasty scar on my hip. But my face should heal up fine.
Mum and Nellie are going crazy over me, it’s only been a day and I’m already over it. They won’t let me get out of bed and keep offering to keep me company. Sure, my arm’s in a sling but I didn’t break my leg — I can walk around! It’s real sweet of them and all, but I just want to be left alone. Can’t believe I let some bastard get the drop on me, especially when he couldn’t even take a punch. I’m so pissed off. I miss you. I want to hug you. I don’t even care about the sex right now, I just want to hold your hand with my good one. That’s not true, I always care about the sex. But you know what I mean. Please don’t show that part to Os.
I really hope things are going better for you down there. The stuff you talked about before leaving was awful and dangerous and you better be careful, Burns, or I’ll hobble my way down there and set you straight. Remember, you promised.
Oh, if you tell Os, could you keep an eye on him? I don’t know if him finding out is a good idea, but if you really need to talk about it, just try not to worry him too much. I don’t want him thinking he’s got to come running back home. I’m fine. I’m healing. It’s just bullshit and it sucks. Guess I got a lot of time on my hand, now. Get it? One hand. At least it’s my writing hand. You know what? I might actually write you that stupid book. I’ve got the time now. Hell, I’ll even name the characters Fronk and Kimmers.
I can’t wait until you’re back, Frank. It’s getting colder here and I think I saw some leaves changing color the other day. This is supposed to be your season. We’re supposed to throw leaves at each other and you’re supposed to mull more of that mead with your cousins and we should be hiding to make out in the pumpkin patches until they find us and––
Cor, the pain medicine is kicking in. I’d scratch out that last part, but I’m sure you’ll love it. I miss you. I love you so much, Frank. Don’t get hurt, and come back home when you can.
Your woad sprite (yes I love it, shut up),
Just felt like throwing together a small montage of my characters enjoying a cool, sunny afternoon.
The sun’s rays shone through the newly cleaned window pane, casting a warm glow on the wooden floor in Osbeorne’s bedroom. Satisfied with his work, the blacksmith grinned and trudged out to the main room. He opened the front door, letting a fresh, cool blast of impending spring air rush into the house. Winter held many memories, some of the more recent ones dear to him, but Os was very much so looking forward to leaves on the trees and warm nights at this point.
He stretched his arms and closed the door, heading back into his bedroom. His bed was currently littered with ribbons, decorated papers, and twine; in the center proudly stood his two gifts: one for Jaemy and one for Kimby (a small painting and an intricate shelving unit, respectively). Sparing a moment to think on both gift recipients, he sighed and ran his hand down his face; by far, the two most complicated women in his in life. Thankfully he had ‘Ridia. What’d he say to her that one time? She was complicated, too, but in a good way? A soft, lopsided smile took over his lips as he remembered that rainy day a few weeks ago. Complicated, indeed.
The smell of an old tome conjured many feelings and thoughts for Aeldes, but chief among them was always amusement. This text had, during its initial inscription, smelled like ink and parchment and potential; now, most considered it to smell of decay and the loss of a different time. That could not be further from the truth! Its smell was layers upon layers of existence and living and learning! So many had learned from this piece: their fingers laid upon it as they studied, translated, copied. It had history and depth which made it immeasurably special.
Her finger lightly glided above the page, conscious of keeping as much oil from her skin from contacting it. This text was not new to her, but she also did not have first-hand experience of this particular time period. It was a fun one to read, partially because she was not trying to compare it to her own admittedly fluid memory. Oh, it looked like that mistake was copied over from the previous manuscript; it was tickled her fancy when something like that happened. A copied mistake today could be tomorrow’s new theory on an entire branch of science. This one was minor enough to not drastically affect anything, so she smiled quietly and left it unmarked.
Pale blue eyes reflected the bright blue sky as they watched a cloud lazily drift overhead. Kimberly’s lips slowly twisted into a petite, dreamy smile. What she did might have been rash — Nellie straight up called it stupid — but Kimberly was confident with the decision. It had to be better than getting all tongue-tied and stuttering every time he winked at her. There was something inexplicably…magnetic about him, and she gambled that taking a risk would even things out. If only a little. Now that the ice had been broken, so to speak, maybe it’d be easier for them to actually…talk. She wanted to talk to him.
One note of a small chuckle floated up from her lips as she contemplated the absurdity of the past two weeks.
Blood-stained clothes bounced down the steps of a farmhouse, their owner rushing to grab more water from the nearby well. Ada grimaced as the sun blinded her and kept pushing the crank as fast as her arms allowed her to, the heavy bucket jerking up the rusty chain awkwardly. What seemed like an eternity later, the young woman — she was going on fifteen, after all — ran as fast as she could with a heavy bucket of water in both hands.
This baby wasn’t going to deliver itself, and her mom needed more water.