It was as her foot slammed into the face of a concealed stone that she cursed just under her breath. The stone, with light gray poking through the sloppily browned surface, had hidden itself beneath the muddy tract that served as a roadway. She hopped on one leg as she held the throbbing foot in hand. Dirt and clumps of questionable debris were smeared away by her fingers while she worked to inspect the damage. The big toe of her right foot had been thoroughly CRUNCHED and a long crack now adorned her nail. The pale color of her skin deepened into sharp red as blood rushed in.
In a single motion, she stomped her foot into the ground to create a wide splash and bent down to retrieve the assailant. Her hand fished briefly to locate the smooth rock and gripped it firmly upon contact. Using the now-surging pain as fuel, she chucked the stone with fury and vigor. It flew for a long moment as it reached the treeline beside the road. As it vanished among the canopy she released a howl; a victory cry.
"Let that be a less to ya..."
With her foot throbbing and her eyes bright, she marched into the Shallows of Alliria. The pain was something of a welcome change for Ciaran. She'd spent the last few days feeling nothing but night chills and an empty stomach; and it felt pleasant to experience literally anything else. Her fingers playfully toyed with the loops of her long braid while her eyes scanned the street. You could barely call this a street. It was really just a straight line between buildings which were really just dilapidated shacks.
'That's not a street... That's a breezeway!' she thought to herself.
Her feet stamped the road behind her with crooked prints, evidence of her "valiant" journey thus traveled. She barely caught a wayward glance; the people of the Shallows were simply to preoccupied with their own dealings to care about yet another vagrant soul. Even if she were a young girl. A great many people had already begun their duties in the cool early morning. The sun's light peaked over the horizon to softly rouse the world from its dull blues of night to the warm orange of day. This had always been Ciaran's favorite time of day - when the two halves of time met to create dawn. The strange desaturation of the world as color was pulled away into the rising sun - it was somehow invigorated her.
An unwashed man had just crossed her path, muttering incoherently to himself, when Ciaran spotted a familiar face; Warren of the Sunken Galleon. This older gentleman was the owner, operator, and proprietor of a local tavern and had been supplying Ciaran with steady work over the last season. A jaunty skip carried her across the street and into Warren's peripheral. Before she had time to speak he raised his hand dismissively, not bothering to look her way. He spoke slow with dejection, his words cold to the touch.
"Scram, mongrel; I haven't any work for you today. You've been bringing me too much meat and it'll likely spoil before I can use it. Find your coin some other way."
He returned to his task, untangling a length of hempen rope, with a ginger shake of his head and quiet, sad sigh. She huffed audibly and turned on her heels to storm off. Down the space between his bar and the structure beside it. In this alleyway she thought on how she'd fill her day.
She had coin for a meal, but could stand to wait a while longer before chowing down - she'd likely go to the Galleon for said chowing down. She frequently met many strange faces in the tavern and with strange faces came strange stories. All she wanted was stories. Or was it that all she wanted was work - something to busy her hands with? She needed to busy her hands.
'Where can I find a suitable distraction? It isn't as if I'm some pimple-nosed brat who can't tell her tail from her nose..! I've got skills!'
"I've got skills!" she bellowed loudly, drawing the attention of several pedestrians, "Recognize my talents, townspeople! Thrust glorious purpose onto me and you'll find me up to task! Up to snuff! The mighty Ciaran Caitriona has never met a challenge she couldn't man-handle into submission!"
In her excitement she found herself atop a barrel cask beside the entrance of the Sunken Galleon; how'd she get up here? She hung from a supporting beam that held an awning over the front doors of the tavern, an audible creak eeking from the pressure. A head poked out from an open window. A middle-aged man with a pointed beard and twirly moustache and a pair of oval spectacles far too tiny for his face hanging at the tip of his nose.
"My, my! What projection you have! Have you ever considered the written word?"
She raised a brow in apparent confusion, "Of course I can write, you daft goat!"
In a single motion, she stomped her foot into the ground to create a wide splash and bent down to retrieve the assailant. Her hand fished briefly to locate the smooth rock and gripped it firmly upon contact. Using the now-surging pain as fuel, she chucked the stone with fury and vigor. It flew for a long moment as it reached the treeline beside the road. As it vanished among the canopy she released a howl; a victory cry.
"Let that be a less to ya..."
With her foot throbbing and her eyes bright, she marched into the Shallows of Alliria. The pain was something of a welcome change for Ciaran. She'd spent the last few days feeling nothing but night chills and an empty stomach; and it felt pleasant to experience literally anything else. Her fingers playfully toyed with the loops of her long braid while her eyes scanned the street. You could barely call this a street. It was really just a straight line between buildings which were really just dilapidated shacks.
'That's not a street... That's a breezeway!' she thought to herself.
Her feet stamped the road behind her with crooked prints, evidence of her "valiant" journey thus traveled. She barely caught a wayward glance; the people of the Shallows were simply to preoccupied with their own dealings to care about yet another vagrant soul. Even if she were a young girl. A great many people had already begun their duties in the cool early morning. The sun's light peaked over the horizon to softly rouse the world from its dull blues of night to the warm orange of day. This had always been Ciaran's favorite time of day - when the two halves of time met to create dawn. The strange desaturation of the world as color was pulled away into the rising sun - it was somehow invigorated her.
An unwashed man had just crossed her path, muttering incoherently to himself, when Ciaran spotted a familiar face; Warren of the Sunken Galleon. This older gentleman was the owner, operator, and proprietor of a local tavern and had been supplying Ciaran with steady work over the last season. A jaunty skip carried her across the street and into Warren's peripheral. Before she had time to speak he raised his hand dismissively, not bothering to look her way. He spoke slow with dejection, his words cold to the touch.
"Scram, mongrel; I haven't any work for you today. You've been bringing me too much meat and it'll likely spoil before I can use it. Find your coin some other way."
He returned to his task, untangling a length of hempen rope, with a ginger shake of his head and quiet, sad sigh. She huffed audibly and turned on her heels to storm off. Down the space between his bar and the structure beside it. In this alleyway she thought on how she'd fill her day.
She had coin for a meal, but could stand to wait a while longer before chowing down - she'd likely go to the Galleon for said chowing down. She frequently met many strange faces in the tavern and with strange faces came strange stories. All she wanted was stories. Or was it that all she wanted was work - something to busy her hands with? She needed to busy her hands.
'Where can I find a suitable distraction? It isn't as if I'm some pimple-nosed brat who can't tell her tail from her nose..! I've got skills!'
"I've got skills!" she bellowed loudly, drawing the attention of several pedestrians, "Recognize my talents, townspeople! Thrust glorious purpose onto me and you'll find me up to task! Up to snuff! The mighty Ciaran Caitriona has never met a challenge she couldn't man-handle into submission!"
In her excitement she found herself atop a barrel cask beside the entrance of the Sunken Galleon; how'd she get up here? She hung from a supporting beam that held an awning over the front doors of the tavern, an audible creak eeking from the pressure. A head poked out from an open window. A middle-aged man with a pointed beard and twirly moustache and a pair of oval spectacles far too tiny for his face hanging at the tip of his nose.
"My, my! What projection you have! Have you ever considered the written word?"
She raised a brow in apparent confusion, "Of course I can write, you daft goat!"
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