Thunder
Location: Nera's Cothold
Time: Month 9, Turn 191
Players: Roa and Nera
Scene: A stormy night has a young Roa awake and looking for company.
The song Nera sings in this scene can be found here.
It's the middle of the night in turn 191, and it is at such hours that even warm and familiar places can seem to harbor hidden dangers. Shadows stretch too long and thoughts ring too loudly. Tonight, the darkness is raging. Rain beats against the roof and ground. There are sharp and jarring flashes of light and then, the worst, the huge claps of thunder that follow heartbeats after. J'lor loves thunderstorms. If he were here, he would be outside, in the rain, staring up at the sky.
But J'lor isn't here. He can so rarely stay overnight, and he's long gone home to Telgar. Tonight, Analia has gone with him. Their daughter, eight-turn-old Roa, remains behind, curled up in her bunk, blanket pulled up tight against her mouth and nose. She squeezes her eyes shut as the thunder rails, but a particularly loud one has her leaping out of bed and running down the hallway, blanket still clenched in her hands and dragging behind. She has no idea where she's going. Only that she cannot stay where she is.
Nera sleeps like the proverbial log. Her nightclothes are practical - a long, man's shirt, a man's cotton pants, battered and patched, but still good enough to serve in this capacity. Who's to see? The weather howls outside, but the cotholder is out cold, blankets hauled up to her chin, bedroom door wide open. In her hearth, the banked fire is threatening to die out, burning low now.
Pit pat, pit pat, small bare feet making their pell-mell progress through the corridor. There is also a faint shhhhhhhhhsh trailing after, and this would be the blanket dragging along the ground. Roa's own sleep clothes are simply whatever Nera had lying around that could be spared. So she's also in a man's shirt, though it falls down past her knees and the sleeves are rolled, rolled, rolled up so her hands can be seen.
The open door catches the child's attention and she stops short, peering inside before inching her way actually in the room proper. She looks around for a minute, gaze settling on the fire. The blanket is set down quietly and Roa creeps over to the banking flames, picking up a poker and beginning to nudge them back to life.
Some instinct wakes Nera, her eyes screwing tight shut for a moment in protest against consciousness, then abruptly flying open. She's a slow waker, though, and it takes a series of rapid blinks before she turns her head to survey the room, mouth open wide in an unmuffled yawn. She catches sight of the child halfway through it, scrambling to prop herself up on one elbow. "Roa, what are you doing?" Her words are sharp, unblurred by sleep. "Watch for sparks on your shirt!"
"I was just..." Poke poke. The embers are nudged around some and then another round of thunder has Roa's squeezing the metal and cringing into herself a little bit. It's only after the last rumbles die away that the child explains quietly, "fire was goin' out."
"Let the fire go out, silly girl," Nera replies. The sharpness in her voice, though, has softened. "It's late. The fire needs to sleep too, sometimes." She hesitates a moment, the hard planes of her face unanimated. Then, abruptly, she lifts one corner of the blanket in wordless invitation.
"Fires don't sleep," Roa murmurs, getting a few more jabs in and, indeed, sending up some sparks that come precariously close to her shirt. "They die." But the poker is slowly lowered and the child slowly rises to slink back to her own room. It's only as she turns to go that she sees the lifted covers. Her gaze moves from the invitation to Nera's face, blue eyes blinking into the darkness. Outside, lightning flares. "M not scared," the child whispers, a touch petulant. Her da -likes- thunderstorms, after all.
Nera doesn't reply, simply remaining still, covers held aloft for another long moment. Then her lips quirk - have-it-your-way, they say - and she begins to lower the covers once more. Slowly. Leaving a window, during which a small body might still gain entrance.
It is during this window that the thunder catches up with the lighting. BOOM! Instincts take over and pride falls dormant as Roa makes a sudden dash for the bed, scrambling in and under the covers, wrenching the blanket up over her head. There is a moment of stillness before the muffled and muted words, "M -not-. Scared."
Nera adjusts to this new addition, shuffling over sideways, and freeing up a bit of the warm part of the mattress. "I'm not scared either," she remarks matter of factly, lowering the blankets, and allowing the child to huddle under them uninterrupted. "Come over here and warm me up, though. I'm all cold."
Hesitation. Long consideration. Roa is old enough now to wonder a bit when adults say such things. She is beginning to learn, by watching the many people that come and go from the cothold, about insincerity. But Nera's words apparently pass muster, because there's the sound of friction against sheets as Roa squirms closer, still hidden under the covers, to ball up against the woman's side.
"Thank you, Roa," Nera murmurs, hauling the pillow into place so she can settle back down against it once more. A flash of lightening illuminates the room, and a few seconds later, thunder rattles hard at the shutters. "It'll be overhead in a few minutes," Nera observes, in the deafening silence that follows. "Don't reckon we'll be sleeping any time soon."
The ball of warmth uncoils a little bit. Enough that Roa can peep her head up and out from under the covers. The trouble with hiding beneath blankets is that it gets pretty hard to breathe pretty quickly. "Don't reckon," she agrees quietly. "What'll we do, instead?" Because lying quietly and waiting for sleep is not something any eight-turn-old wishes to do.
"Well, nothing that involves moving from the bed," Nera contributes promptly. "I reckon someone's come along and knocked the last bit of my fire to pieces, and I'm not waiting for it to warm the room up again." So, a pause. "I'm too tired for our story, I think." For their ever-continuing tale, stretching and winding on through countless improbable plot twists. "Maybe a song."
"I was helpin'," Roa notes softly, about the fire. "Tryin' to," even if she did just end up stabbing the poor thing near to death. There is, in the dimness, a faint frown as their story is denied, because they were at a very interesting part in which her favorite character, the one based (not so) loosely on herself, was about to do something improbably heroic. But the offer of a song chases the faint frown away, though another bout of thunder has Roa squeezing her eyes shut before she can murmur a meek and subdued, "Okay."
There's a brief moment of unaccustomed warmth in Nera's voice, and one warm arm goes out to wrap around the little girl. "My Ma sang me this one," she murmurs, pulling the child in close. "Maybe you'll learn it, if I sing it over to you a time or two." Or with Roa's memory, perhaps just one time. There's nothing in Nera's speaking voice to suggest she can sing. That she can hold a melody, and indeed injecting her tone with a new richness is unlikely. But she props herself up on one elbow, looking down at the little girl beside her, reaching out to smooth down a tangle of dark hair. Her lullaby is quiet.
The arm around her seems an invitation for Roa to move a bit closer, and so she does. She is J'lor's child, after all. Of course she'd be touchy-feely. But she peers up at Nera in silence, waiting for this song of her Ma's that she is to learn. Roa's memory is better with images. Sounds keep for longer than most, but they don't keep forever like the things she sees do. So she watches Nera's lips move as the lullaby begins, breathing softly, only tensing when the thunder crashes. Once the song ends, Roa whispers, "Don' think I have it yet. Sing it again?"
"I think I'd better," Nera agrees quietly, allowing the girl another of her rare, warm smiles. This is why the song was chosen over the story; is is quiet, lulling, comforting. There are no daring heroics to set the heart racing, and banish sleep further. So she obliges, creating a little tent for them under the blanket, up on her elbow to make a roof with her head, blocking out the lightening when it comes, muffling the thunder.
Roa rolls onto her back, blinking up at Nera beneath the safety of the covers. Thin though they are, there's a deeper sense of safety under blankets than any walls can provide. She is blinking slowly, the music doing its job despite the fact that Roa keeps shaking away the sleepiness that begins to hang on her eyelids. Eyes only half open, she tries to continue to watch Nera's mouth. "One more time?" The words are only the littlest bit slurred.
Nera simply smiles; this time, she steers clear of commentary, watching those drooping eyelids, hand slowly stroking J'lor's daughter's hair, even rhythm urging sleep. "One more time," she agrees, humming softly. She hums her way through several bars before the words are picked up, softer now, breathier. She hums several bars after, looping around to pick up the tune slowly, fading out, matching the slow raking of her fingers through dark hair to her small charge's breathing.
J'lor's daughter doesn't have a chance. She tries, certainly, to keep her eyes open, to learn. But by the time the words begin, Roa has contented herself with listening with her eyes closed. By the time they end, she breathes softly, body limp, fully asleep. And perhaps it is this final rendition, taken in when she is half awake and half not, that will allow this particular song to stay with her. By morning, Roa will know it by heart.
Time: Month 9, Turn 191
Players: Roa and Nera
Scene: A stormy night has a young Roa awake and looking for company.
The song Nera sings in this scene can be found here.
It's the middle of the night in turn 191, and it is at such hours that even warm and familiar places can seem to harbor hidden dangers. Shadows stretch too long and thoughts ring too loudly. Tonight, the darkness is raging. Rain beats against the roof and ground. There are sharp and jarring flashes of light and then, the worst, the huge claps of thunder that follow heartbeats after. J'lor loves thunderstorms. If he were here, he would be outside, in the rain, staring up at the sky.
But J'lor isn't here. He can so rarely stay overnight, and he's long gone home to Telgar. Tonight, Analia has gone with him. Their daughter, eight-turn-old Roa, remains behind, curled up in her bunk, blanket pulled up tight against her mouth and nose. She squeezes her eyes shut as the thunder rails, but a particularly loud one has her leaping out of bed and running down the hallway, blanket still clenched in her hands and dragging behind. She has no idea where she's going. Only that she cannot stay where she is.
Nera sleeps like the proverbial log. Her nightclothes are practical - a long, man's shirt, a man's cotton pants, battered and patched, but still good enough to serve in this capacity. Who's to see? The weather howls outside, but the cotholder is out cold, blankets hauled up to her chin, bedroom door wide open. In her hearth, the banked fire is threatening to die out, burning low now.
Pit pat, pit pat, small bare feet making their pell-mell progress through the corridor. There is also a faint shhhhhhhhhsh trailing after, and this would be the blanket dragging along the ground. Roa's own sleep clothes are simply whatever Nera had lying around that could be spared. So she's also in a man's shirt, though it falls down past her knees and the sleeves are rolled, rolled, rolled up so her hands can be seen.
The open door catches the child's attention and she stops short, peering inside before inching her way actually in the room proper. She looks around for a minute, gaze settling on the fire. The blanket is set down quietly and Roa creeps over to the banking flames, picking up a poker and beginning to nudge them back to life.
Some instinct wakes Nera, her eyes screwing tight shut for a moment in protest against consciousness, then abruptly flying open. She's a slow waker, though, and it takes a series of rapid blinks before she turns her head to survey the room, mouth open wide in an unmuffled yawn. She catches sight of the child halfway through it, scrambling to prop herself up on one elbow. "Roa, what are you doing?" Her words are sharp, unblurred by sleep. "Watch for sparks on your shirt!"
"I was just..." Poke poke. The embers are nudged around some and then another round of thunder has Roa's squeezing the metal and cringing into herself a little bit. It's only after the last rumbles die away that the child explains quietly, "fire was goin' out."
"Let the fire go out, silly girl," Nera replies. The sharpness in her voice, though, has softened. "It's late. The fire needs to sleep too, sometimes." She hesitates a moment, the hard planes of her face unanimated. Then, abruptly, she lifts one corner of the blanket in wordless invitation.
"Fires don't sleep," Roa murmurs, getting a few more jabs in and, indeed, sending up some sparks that come precariously close to her shirt. "They die." But the poker is slowly lowered and the child slowly rises to slink back to her own room. It's only as she turns to go that she sees the lifted covers. Her gaze moves from the invitation to Nera's face, blue eyes blinking into the darkness. Outside, lightning flares. "M not scared," the child whispers, a touch petulant. Her da -likes- thunderstorms, after all.
Nera doesn't reply, simply remaining still, covers held aloft for another long moment. Then her lips quirk - have-it-your-way, they say - and she begins to lower the covers once more. Slowly. Leaving a window, during which a small body might still gain entrance.
It is during this window that the thunder catches up with the lighting. BOOM! Instincts take over and pride falls dormant as Roa makes a sudden dash for the bed, scrambling in and under the covers, wrenching the blanket up over her head. There is a moment of stillness before the muffled and muted words, "M -not-. Scared."
Nera adjusts to this new addition, shuffling over sideways, and freeing up a bit of the warm part of the mattress. "I'm not scared either," she remarks matter of factly, lowering the blankets, and allowing the child to huddle under them uninterrupted. "Come over here and warm me up, though. I'm all cold."
Hesitation. Long consideration. Roa is old enough now to wonder a bit when adults say such things. She is beginning to learn, by watching the many people that come and go from the cothold, about insincerity. But Nera's words apparently pass muster, because there's the sound of friction against sheets as Roa squirms closer, still hidden under the covers, to ball up against the woman's side.
"Thank you, Roa," Nera murmurs, hauling the pillow into place so she can settle back down against it once more. A flash of lightening illuminates the room, and a few seconds later, thunder rattles hard at the shutters. "It'll be overhead in a few minutes," Nera observes, in the deafening silence that follows. "Don't reckon we'll be sleeping any time soon."
The ball of warmth uncoils a little bit. Enough that Roa can peep her head up and out from under the covers. The trouble with hiding beneath blankets is that it gets pretty hard to breathe pretty quickly. "Don't reckon," she agrees quietly. "What'll we do, instead?" Because lying quietly and waiting for sleep is not something any eight-turn-old wishes to do.
"Well, nothing that involves moving from the bed," Nera contributes promptly. "I reckon someone's come along and knocked the last bit of my fire to pieces, and I'm not waiting for it to warm the room up again." So, a pause. "I'm too tired for our story, I think." For their ever-continuing tale, stretching and winding on through countless improbable plot twists. "Maybe a song."
"I was helpin'," Roa notes softly, about the fire. "Tryin' to," even if she did just end up stabbing the poor thing near to death. There is, in the dimness, a faint frown as their story is denied, because they were at a very interesting part in which her favorite character, the one based (not so) loosely on herself, was about to do something improbably heroic. But the offer of a song chases the faint frown away, though another bout of thunder has Roa squeezing her eyes shut before she can murmur a meek and subdued, "Okay."
There's a brief moment of unaccustomed warmth in Nera's voice, and one warm arm goes out to wrap around the little girl. "My Ma sang me this one," she murmurs, pulling the child in close. "Maybe you'll learn it, if I sing it over to you a time or two." Or with Roa's memory, perhaps just one time. There's nothing in Nera's speaking voice to suggest she can sing. That she can hold a melody, and indeed injecting her tone with a new richness is unlikely. But she props herself up on one elbow, looking down at the little girl beside her, reaching out to smooth down a tangle of dark hair. Her lullaby is quiet.
The arm around her seems an invitation for Roa to move a bit closer, and so she does. She is J'lor's child, after all. Of course she'd be touchy-feely. But she peers up at Nera in silence, waiting for this song of her Ma's that she is to learn. Roa's memory is better with images. Sounds keep for longer than most, but they don't keep forever like the things she sees do. So she watches Nera's lips move as the lullaby begins, breathing softly, only tensing when the thunder crashes. Once the song ends, Roa whispers, "Don' think I have it yet. Sing it again?"
"I think I'd better," Nera agrees quietly, allowing the girl another of her rare, warm smiles. This is why the song was chosen over the story; is is quiet, lulling, comforting. There are no daring heroics to set the heart racing, and banish sleep further. So she obliges, creating a little tent for them under the blanket, up on her elbow to make a roof with her head, blocking out the lightening when it comes, muffling the thunder.
Roa rolls onto her back, blinking up at Nera beneath the safety of the covers. Thin though they are, there's a deeper sense of safety under blankets than any walls can provide. She is blinking slowly, the music doing its job despite the fact that Roa keeps shaking away the sleepiness that begins to hang on her eyelids. Eyes only half open, she tries to continue to watch Nera's mouth. "One more time?" The words are only the littlest bit slurred.
Nera simply smiles; this time, she steers clear of commentary, watching those drooping eyelids, hand slowly stroking J'lor's daughter's hair, even rhythm urging sleep. "One more time," she agrees, humming softly. She hums her way through several bars before the words are picked up, softer now, breathier. She hums several bars after, looping around to pick up the tune slowly, fading out, matching the slow raking of her fingers through dark hair to her small charge's breathing.
J'lor's daughter doesn't have a chance. She tries, certainly, to keep her eyes open, to learn. But by the time the words begin, Roa has contented herself with listening with her eyes closed. By the time they end, she breathes softly, body limp, fully asleep. And perhaps it is this final rendition, taken in when she is half awake and half not, that will allow this particular song to stay with her. By morning, Roa will know it by heart.