Weak late winter sunlight poured in from the open window, just enough to see her work by. Mild scent of hot beeswax and the ever present foundry haze, scorching her throat. Esmé poured wax from a red clay crock into the mouths of two dozen shallow tins, lined up like soldiers on the kitchen table. The last of the garden had gone into this, cured roots and preserved delicates, containers of earth upended outside for the stragglers. There would be no replanting this year.
Sad, that. Maybe. At least there’d be fewer drunks to piss in her flowerpots on the road – that was the hope. But she didn’t think she’d want to come back and see whoever took this space next. Home and hiding for the most difficult years of her life, precious in a way.
“I’ve never left the city, you know?” Esmé called to Ceren in the other room. Their place was tiny, she didn’t need to raise her voice. “What’s it like out there? Just quicksand and darkspawn everywhere, I imagine.” The wax was just about set, now. Starting with the first one poured, she set to work covering the tins with cloth and tying kitchen twine around the mouth of each container. Salves and ointments for minor complaints, enough for every pack if used sparingly.
Ceren had told her before, of course. About her work, about the lands around Kirkwall and Denerim both. But it was always so nice to listen to someone talk about the things they loved. Esmé washed her hands in the basin and walked into the other room, linking her arm through Ceren’s. Momentarily unsteady on her new leg, she leaned into her friend.
Around them, furniture was pushed to the walls, open packs and saddlebags infesting the packed earth floor.
“Still can’t believe we’re doing this. Are you sure about it all? We could still say that we changed our minds.”
Sad, that. Maybe. At least there’d be fewer drunks to piss in her flowerpots on the road – that was the hope. But she didn’t think she’d want to come back and see whoever took this space next. Home and hiding for the most difficult years of her life, precious in a way.
“I’ve never left the city, you know?” Esmé called to Ceren in the other room. Their place was tiny, she didn’t need to raise her voice. “What’s it like out there? Just quicksand and darkspawn everywhere, I imagine.” The wax was just about set, now. Starting with the first one poured, she set to work covering the tins with cloth and tying kitchen twine around the mouth of each container. Salves and ointments for minor complaints, enough for every pack if used sparingly.
Ceren had told her before, of course. About her work, about the lands around Kirkwall and Denerim both. But it was always so nice to listen to someone talk about the things they loved. Esmé washed her hands in the basin and walked into the other room, linking her arm through Ceren’s. Momentarily unsteady on her new leg, she leaned into her friend.
Around them, furniture was pushed to the walls, open packs and saddlebags infesting the packed earth floor.
“Still can’t believe we’re doing this. Are you sure about it all? We could still say that we changed our minds.”
03-17-2024, 03:38 PM
