Post by wgeorge on Apr 27, 2009 8:53:16 GMT -5
Hunched over on a stack of old cloth, Aurora cleaned her blade. With gentle yet firm sweeps of her arm, she dragged the damp cloth down the curve, ending at the point of the sword. She put the cloth down and exchanged it for a sharpening stone, in which she slid along the dangerous side. Her dark wavy hair fell among her face, almost concealing her in secrecy. Her green-ish brown eyes watched the sparks fly from her sword, flicking here and there. She paused as she heard fast footsteps approaching, then from the corner of her eye saw several men run past her. Not meant for her, she gazed back down at herself, now reflected off the silver metal of death. She ran the cloth over the blade one last time before shifting her weight and sliding the sword into its harness at her hip.
Aurora has kept to herself since coming to the Varden. Her past stalking her like a shadow, in which she desperately tries to hide from. She keeps herself as busy as she can, throwing herself into any type of work, cooking, blacksmith, fighting or knitting with the other women. Although the last job is her least favorite. She remained seated on the pile of old dirty cloth, pulling her legs to her, crossing them in a pretzel shape. She closed her eyes, hands on her knees, listened to the sounds around her.
The wind flapping against the tents.
The squish of feet into the worn dirt and mud.
The clink of armor.
The voices of men, women and children.
The squeal of a stallion.
Her eyes darted open and looked for the stallion. A dark grey flash caught her eyes. He strained and pulled against his lead rope, on the other end was a big burly man, dirty and grimy. He jerked the lead, yelling and waving his arms at the horse. He called the horse names, swearing that he was not behaving. Aurora stood up and placed her hands firmly on her hips. She watched as the stallions eyes rolled in his sockets, filled with fear of being beaten. Aurora's lips pursed together, hands clenched, she strode towards the man.
He doesn't like you.
She said to him in a matter of fact way. The man stopped yanking on the lead and turned to look at her. The stallion remained standing, straining against the rope. He was tall and thick, and built like a war horse. His pelt was a dark dapple grey, mane and tall almost black. He was a beautiful beast. A caged beast.
I don't care if he likes me or not. He's gonna do what I say.
The man grunted and turned back to the stead, pulling out a whip that hung from his belt.
Aurora reached out, quick as a deadly snake, and grasped the mans wrist, squeezing and twisting. The whip dropped to the ground.
Ill pay you for him.
Her eyes bore into the man as he shifted his weight uncomfortable. Aurora reached into her pouch and pulled out a few gold coins. The man grunted and paused, looking from beast to gold. He swore under his breath, tossed the lead roped into her hand, snatched the gold and trotted off.
She held the lead for a moment, watching the man go before turning to the stallion. She held out her hand, placing it on the thick, arched, muscled neck. She slid her hand over the velvet fur, hushing and murmuring soft words that were only for him. The stallion nickered, relieved to be free of that brute. She ran her hand over his body, checking for any weakness of joints of muscle. Any hint of past injuries or birth defects. She found none. He was put together as if the gods themselves watched over it. The stallion nosed her hand, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. He stomped his foot and swished his tail, seeming satisfied she was good enough to be his owner.
You are as wild and free as a storm. Storm. A fitting name.
She smiled at her Storm, and turned to lead the stallion to her tent.
Aurora has kept to herself since coming to the Varden. Her past stalking her like a shadow, in which she desperately tries to hide from. She keeps herself as busy as she can, throwing herself into any type of work, cooking, blacksmith, fighting or knitting with the other women. Although the last job is her least favorite. She remained seated on the pile of old dirty cloth, pulling her legs to her, crossing them in a pretzel shape. She closed her eyes, hands on her knees, listened to the sounds around her.
The wind flapping against the tents.
The squish of feet into the worn dirt and mud.
The clink of armor.
The voices of men, women and children.
The squeal of a stallion.
Her eyes darted open and looked for the stallion. A dark grey flash caught her eyes. He strained and pulled against his lead rope, on the other end was a big burly man, dirty and grimy. He jerked the lead, yelling and waving his arms at the horse. He called the horse names, swearing that he was not behaving. Aurora stood up and placed her hands firmly on her hips. She watched as the stallions eyes rolled in his sockets, filled with fear of being beaten. Aurora's lips pursed together, hands clenched, she strode towards the man.
He doesn't like you.
She said to him in a matter of fact way. The man stopped yanking on the lead and turned to look at her. The stallion remained standing, straining against the rope. He was tall and thick, and built like a war horse. His pelt was a dark dapple grey, mane and tall almost black. He was a beautiful beast. A caged beast.
I don't care if he likes me or not. He's gonna do what I say.
The man grunted and turned back to the stead, pulling out a whip that hung from his belt.
Aurora reached out, quick as a deadly snake, and grasped the mans wrist, squeezing and twisting. The whip dropped to the ground.
Ill pay you for him.
Her eyes bore into the man as he shifted his weight uncomfortable. Aurora reached into her pouch and pulled out a few gold coins. The man grunted and paused, looking from beast to gold. He swore under his breath, tossed the lead roped into her hand, snatched the gold and trotted off.
She held the lead for a moment, watching the man go before turning to the stallion. She held out her hand, placing it on the thick, arched, muscled neck. She slid her hand over the velvet fur, hushing and murmuring soft words that were only for him. The stallion nickered, relieved to be free of that brute. She ran her hand over his body, checking for any weakness of joints of muscle. Any hint of past injuries or birth defects. She found none. He was put together as if the gods themselves watched over it. The stallion nosed her hand, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. He stomped his foot and swished his tail, seeming satisfied she was good enough to be his owner.
You are as wild and free as a storm. Storm. A fitting name.
She smiled at her Storm, and turned to lead the stallion to her tent.
