Pretty Things [Winter 3011] [Open]
Nov 9, 2018 12:41:56 GMT -5
Post by Talfryn on Nov 9, 2018 12:41:56 GMT -5
A rattling wheeze bundled beneath furs shifted behind the cart. This time of year was terrible. Cold, dry air. The streets of Edoras were not bustling on days like these. People came and went about their business. Eager to go back to their homes and warm fires, but such was not the life of the traveler. Talfryn had lived his life in the wilds; never had he lived under a roof, though in his older age sometimes the weather caught up to him. He pulled out a handkerchief and hacked within it, then took the last crate to set up his ramshackle sales stand. Beads and trinkets, talisman and amulets. The tonics weren’t like to freeze for the alcohol within them, though they only had two jars of leeches left. Talfryn kept them inside his fur robes, safe against his body, trying to keep them alive. When spring came they’d be plentiful for the finding but there were none to come by in this weather, and he needed to keep them alive or sell them. There was no sense wasting.
His young wife, Freahilda, was coughing on the cart where Talfryn’s boxes had earlier been settled, her donkey chewing cud as he stood with thick fur; not bothered by the time of year as much as the skin-clad humans. She would have rather stayed at the camp where she could have kept up a small fire at at least had warm feet and hands, but here she felt a sack of frozen bones, and her eyes stared dimly at the house up the street. There was an orangey glow in the light of morning shining from the windows. Perhaps the largest house she had ever seen, aside from Meduseld itself. Snobbish rich people living within, she was sure. Rich people who probably had fine wool to keep them warm. More than these dank, smelling furs, which had never seen a good wash. Ever since Talfryn’s grandsons had run off on them, he never let her stay alone at the camp in case she got the same idea stuck in her head. Aside, the donkey listened best to her.
The old man reached inside his robes to pull out quick one of the leech jars to check on the creatures, still wiggling about, holding it up in his clumsy hand, the hand which was lacking an index finger. “Dad blemed, cold,” Talfryn muttered as he fumbled with it, nearly dropping. The glass would have ended up all over the street and the leeches would have been lost.
“I could make us some better mittens if you gave me the money for wool,” Freahilda put in; her eyes constantly watching Talfryn for any chance of bettering her situation.
“No sense mekin’ mittens when the ones we’s got jest fine. Et’ll be spring en three months,” he answered, stuffing the jar back inside the pocket after observing the wiggling, vile creatures. He reached back into the cart for his mitts, which were made of a soft, roughly sewn together polecat fur.
Freahilda grimaced; she would rather burn those disgusting things. At least the cold was keeping the smell at bay, but she knew the moment a spring breeze hit them, all such odors wafting from the old man would again be smelled. She groaned, and huddled back into her furs.
“Whets this!” Talfryn called, seeing the approach of one on the streets. The others were passing by, but they were nearing the cart. “Cen I intrest ye en any of my wares? Gots all sorts of thengs to help you here. Stave off the winter colds, keep ye spirits away. Cure all illness. Trinkets if ye like, some pretty things. Jest tell me what be yer ailments, and I’ll find ye what ye need.”
His young wife, Freahilda, was coughing on the cart where Talfryn’s boxes had earlier been settled, her donkey chewing cud as he stood with thick fur; not bothered by the time of year as much as the skin-clad humans. She would have rather stayed at the camp where she could have kept up a small fire at at least had warm feet and hands, but here she felt a sack of frozen bones, and her eyes stared dimly at the house up the street. There was an orangey glow in the light of morning shining from the windows. Perhaps the largest house she had ever seen, aside from Meduseld itself. Snobbish rich people living within, she was sure. Rich people who probably had fine wool to keep them warm. More than these dank, smelling furs, which had never seen a good wash. Ever since Talfryn’s grandsons had run off on them, he never let her stay alone at the camp in case she got the same idea stuck in her head. Aside, the donkey listened best to her.
The old man reached inside his robes to pull out quick one of the leech jars to check on the creatures, still wiggling about, holding it up in his clumsy hand, the hand which was lacking an index finger. “Dad blemed, cold,” Talfryn muttered as he fumbled with it, nearly dropping. The glass would have ended up all over the street and the leeches would have been lost.
“I could make us some better mittens if you gave me the money for wool,” Freahilda put in; her eyes constantly watching Talfryn for any chance of bettering her situation.
“No sense mekin’ mittens when the ones we’s got jest fine. Et’ll be spring en three months,” he answered, stuffing the jar back inside the pocket after observing the wiggling, vile creatures. He reached back into the cart for his mitts, which were made of a soft, roughly sewn together polecat fur.
Freahilda grimaced; she would rather burn those disgusting things. At least the cold was keeping the smell at bay, but she knew the moment a spring breeze hit them, all such odors wafting from the old man would again be smelled. She groaned, and huddled back into her furs.
“Whets this!” Talfryn called, seeing the approach of one on the streets. The others were passing by, but they were nearing the cart. “Cen I intrest ye en any of my wares? Gots all sorts of thengs to help you here. Stave off the winter colds, keep ye spirits away. Cure all illness. Trinkets if ye like, some pretty things. Jest tell me what be yer ailments, and I’ll find ye what ye need.”