Rosamund of Ponsyll was born to a once-respectable sheep hearding family in Alba. She'd learned to milk, churn, and mend as a mere sl;ip of a girl- long before she understood why her mother's eyes were so weary and dull, and she could count the callouses on her father's hands into numbers her little mind could hardly comprehend. As she aged, she learned that their decline in standing was not so sudden of a happening as she was led to believe, but a slow, taxing unraveling. Debts were owed, harvests lost to the seasons, and her father had the poor habit of making promises he knew he couldn't keep. By the time she became of age, much of their land had been seized, leaving only a small pasture, and a rickety old cottage that leaned to the left with age. At the mere age of sixteen, she became the steady center of what remained of her family, rising with the call of the rooster to keep the work from overwhelming her aged parents. The War for Azuras took it's toll. Bandit attacks ravaged their already-decomposing pasture, and her parents met their bitter demise to the stresses.
The traveller has just arrived in a small town. As they look around, their gaze is met with run down houses and shops. They duck into one of the shacks, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the small room, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town?" She begins, then pauses to study their face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a chair, “Where do you come from? What do you hope to make of yourself?”
Brown eyes flare wide at the old beldam's words. Rosamund flinches, and furrows her brow, and pulls her cloak tighter. She moves to sit aside the old woman, her words coming out meeker than intended. "I come from Alba, ma'am. A farmer's daughter. I-." She pauses, and seems to think better of herself, and for whatever reason the hag's questioning struck the cord of insecurity within her. "I don't know, ma'am. I suppose I'm only looking to survive."
Recommended Comments