Broken Nose and Bottle Necks (March 3010) - [Swithin]
Sept 17, 2018 18:26:36 GMT -5
Post by Adelais on Sept 17, 2018 18:26:36 GMT -5
Swithin handed Adelais the cyser, and while the woman was eager to take it into her fingers, she glanced once more to the stuffed rabbit on the counter. “But Hopsaloooooot, Ginger!” She pouted to him, her large, wide eyes seemingly growing even greater upon her face.
Well, she could smell. The coil scent of the cyser lifted into her nose, and the young woman soon forgot the plight of her lost bunny. “Oh, this smells good. They have this all year? I’ve never tried it before.” She lifted it to her lips eagerly, even as Swithin ducked beneath the counter to grab the sweet honey mead she had told him was there.
“They give you tomorrow off work, Ad?”
“Oh good, you found it! I was worried it might have run away,” Adelais answered. She leaned on the chair, toes curling as she debated going to the cask herself, yet Swithin had been very insistent that she sit still. The cyser sloshed over the rim and onto her hand. “Work? Oh. Well. Kind of. I have to go in! Matron wants to see my nose. Have to ask Runa to cover my shifts—oh no!” She gasped, rocking once more in the chair. “Is Captain Ceolmund going to be mad I am stealing his wife?” She was not sure she wanted to see him angry.
Her thoughts once more shifted, as Ginger finally recalled the importance of Hopsalot. He said something about having a dog himself, but the woman did not recall seeing—or smelling—one that morning at his house. Though, how one could smell anything above that bacon…
“You’re sick!?” Adelais asked, looking up immediately, eyes wide. “I have poultices and herbs. Swithy, you need to say something!” Hurriedly, the woman sought to rise, wondering where the medicine cabinet actually was. Sometimes it moved.
“So you’re all alone here, hm? Just you?”
His question seemed so casual, offhanded and innocent. Yet immediately Adelais went rigid and looked to him so quickly a strand of her wheat hair dunked into her cyser. Her face was pale, her eyes stretched in surprise. Her mouth fell agape, and it opened and closed as if floundering for words. It was none of his business if she was alone. Unless did he care because he was interested in going up her skirt?
No, that could not have been it. His eyes were serious. Detatched. Not like the night before when his hands had been warm and his body close. She looked to her grandmother’s room, then. Staring as if faces cycled through the closed entry.
“It’s grandmother’s house,” she said sternly. With a huff to hide the water forming in her eyes, she lifted the mug of cyser and tipped it back, downing the rest of the drink in a single go. “But I’m the only one here now.”
Mother had gone first, though Adelais could not recall her. Maybe her father went first—she would not have known him from a Dunlending if she had ever crossed his path. Grandfather had left her. Grandmother had been so sad. And then it was Faramund—cut down upon the plain.
Involuntarily, the woman grimaced, and though she sought to lift the mug once more, found it empty.
Then it had been just her and grandmother.
And then, after that spring, it had just been her.
“Mead, Ginger,” she demanded quietly, thrusting the mug toward him without looking toward the man as he watched her. She did not wish him to see the frown and sorrow in her eyes, the water that was congregating at their corners and waiting for release.
Well, she could smell. The coil scent of the cyser lifted into her nose, and the young woman soon forgot the plight of her lost bunny. “Oh, this smells good. They have this all year? I’ve never tried it before.” She lifted it to her lips eagerly, even as Swithin ducked beneath the counter to grab the sweet honey mead she had told him was there.
“They give you tomorrow off work, Ad?”
“Oh good, you found it! I was worried it might have run away,” Adelais answered. She leaned on the chair, toes curling as she debated going to the cask herself, yet Swithin had been very insistent that she sit still. The cyser sloshed over the rim and onto her hand. “Work? Oh. Well. Kind of. I have to go in! Matron wants to see my nose. Have to ask Runa to cover my shifts—oh no!” She gasped, rocking once more in the chair. “Is Captain Ceolmund going to be mad I am stealing his wife?” She was not sure she wanted to see him angry.
Her thoughts once more shifted, as Ginger finally recalled the importance of Hopsalot. He said something about having a dog himself, but the woman did not recall seeing—or smelling—one that morning at his house. Though, how one could smell anything above that bacon…
“You’re sick!?” Adelais asked, looking up immediately, eyes wide. “I have poultices and herbs. Swithy, you need to say something!” Hurriedly, the woman sought to rise, wondering where the medicine cabinet actually was. Sometimes it moved.
“So you’re all alone here, hm? Just you?”
His question seemed so casual, offhanded and innocent. Yet immediately Adelais went rigid and looked to him so quickly a strand of her wheat hair dunked into her cyser. Her face was pale, her eyes stretched in surprise. Her mouth fell agape, and it opened and closed as if floundering for words. It was none of his business if she was alone. Unless did he care because he was interested in going up her skirt?
No, that could not have been it. His eyes were serious. Detatched. Not like the night before when his hands had been warm and his body close. She looked to her grandmother’s room, then. Staring as if faces cycled through the closed entry.
“It’s grandmother’s house,” she said sternly. With a huff to hide the water forming in her eyes, she lifted the mug of cyser and tipped it back, downing the rest of the drink in a single go. “But I’m the only one here now.”
Mother had gone first, though Adelais could not recall her. Maybe her father went first—she would not have known him from a Dunlending if she had ever crossed his path. Grandfather had left her. Grandmother had been so sad. And then it was Faramund—cut down upon the plain.
Involuntarily, the woman grimaced, and though she sought to lift the mug once more, found it empty.
Then it had been just her and grandmother.
And then, after that spring, it had just been her.
“Mead, Ginger,” she demanded quietly, thrusting the mug toward him without looking toward the man as he watched her. She did not wish him to see the frown and sorrow in her eyes, the water that was congregating at their corners and waiting for release.