The rustic cabin sat deep
within the heart of the woods far from any sorts of civilization for miles. In
fact, if one wasn’t entirely sure where they were going to go it would be
almost impossible to find it even on happenstance. The paths ended somewhere
near the algae filled river that eventually turned into a deadly falls. Once through
the massive fallen log (large enough for a normal heighted human to fit through
standing) there was very little indication that anything living would be
anywhere near the thing except for the vague landscaping that eventually was at
best a rustic wild garden that had overgrown any attempts to tame it. The wood
of the cabin was still addled with branches rough, as if fallen logs had been
collected over planned and carefully crafted beams, and it wasn’t more than a
few feet wide by a few feet long. Large enough to be considered a cabin instead
of a simple shelter, but almost blended into the natural scenery of the thick
growth. Smoke rolled through the opening in the roof, drifting through the
woods and chasing off prey as signs of life invaded their normal quiet.
Though through the actual
hinged door on the side of the cabin, within the very open floorplan was
anything but. The area that served as a kitchen across the tightly packed
wooded floor that the earth’s fingers still attempted to pry though the boards
in sprouts of green was the massive fireplace where the wood smoke originated,
filling the small space with the aroma of beef and vegetable stew that had been
marinating and cooking over the flame for some hours before. The obsidian
cauldron that carried its contents, to the massive spoon that laid within.
Across the red bricked fireplace rested the herbs that had been freshly cut
that morning – sage, and thyme and other earthen flavors that would be made
into poultices or tossed into stew, or for the various other uses that they
were found to be wrapped in twine. The kitchen beyond that consisted of a
roughly created table from an old stub still with clinging pieces of earth to
its roots, and a couple of equally as rough looking chairs. No rugs, nothing of
a cloth nature through the various collection of cast iron pots, pans, and
alchemy tables where the healer’s items were collected resembling more of a
modern day I-spy than any organization attempt at all.
The living/bedroom space
was on in the same, the other area nearly separated. Another, smaller fire pit
had been built into the space, consisting of an area large enough to contain
the heat when winter’s grasp stole away the breath of the place. This is where
the long wood elf woman lay carelessly eagle-sprawled, entangled in the hanging
piece that contained a meshed netting coated in a multitude of woven blankets,
furs, and various small pieces too obscured to be considered but entirely
possible patches of clothing. Strands of wood-bark colored hair tangled over
coffee skin that spent more hours coloring in the sun that coated in the
bed-nest that she found herself in now. None of the clothing obscured the bits
of scarred flesh, freckled and checkered with various signs of fights and a
life not gentle lived.
Twin knife-tipped ears shifted
beneath the mop of morning hair as her head lifted, jaded emerald orbs glaring
shamelessly at the peak of the sun between two of the wood boards that blinded
her, and as Nezumi moved to stretch she found herself unceremoniously crashing
to the unforgiving coarse grain of her floorboards. The string of language that
flowed freely from between those lips is best left unrepeated (as eloquent as
the elven language was as a whole, it was entirely something else when put to
the right tones and temperament). As she slowly tried to push herself up into a
standing position and reached to stretch she ignored the twinge in knee and
spine that protested such movement at this particular hour of the morning.
Yesterday’s stale ale-breath filled the yawn that finally let go of her face before
numb fingers found area’s to scratch and shift the sleep out of her eyes.
Without another soul
occupying the sanctuary the reclusive hermit had built, there was little to
worry about as far as one might consider common decency. The pot of stew would
feed her for days yet, and this place away from civilization was the closest
that the eccentric woman had ever found close enough to be considered home.
Home meant many things to many people, and to someone who had lived a life of
blade and wit it was usually wherever you rested your head when the coin kept
flowing. For Nezumi, a woman too closely related to the humans she contracted
with than the elusive habits of her own people it was strange that home had
come to be built in this place that she found herself now. Though it was far
from the trespassing of human footfalls, from even the clan that she had
birthed within or the others who called them friends. This was a place where
there was no pressure to speak, to do more than learn to live with and of the
land. To feel the quiet of the breeze, to wake to nothing more than the crow
who still sang as if he had no understanding that he could not sing, or to
actually know the sound of the breeze as it whispered through overgrowth of
grass blades.
There was no war here.
There was no cries of mother’s who lost their sons, no wails of other’s infants
who knew the pull of hunger, and there was no one to look upon the woman who
drank entirely too much and enjoyed the song of battle within her very veins
and tell her that she was not of her own people. No one to question the madness
of her mind, the addled way that she saw visions with more than her eyes.
This was quiet, this was
solitude, and this was peace.
The rumbling mewl of the
hunting cat as he prowled along tree-tops, or the brightly colored frogs of the
forest to the slithering forked tongue serpents on the hunt for the elusive
brown furred mouse.
This was home.
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