Ceria Ythan
Member
- Messages
- 9
- Character Biography
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An ornate wooden box sat upon a boulder.
It was a well-worn box; its edges chipped, and the once intricate detail of painted flowering vines faded by both time and the sun. How many generations had it seen? How many times had this box marked the beginning of another family? How many hands of tradition had passed it down the line? What would those hands think now?
Ceria Ythan did not know, nor did she care.
She recalled the moment that she had stopped caring.
The woman had found herself on the floor of her room, squinting into the darkness beneath her bed in search of a rogue sock that had evaded the wash. However, instead of finding the lost garment, she came face-to-face with an old blessing and bitter burden left there to rot. A neglected fiddle case, practically encrusted with dust. How long had it been? Two years? Five? Ten, perhaps? The very sight of it was a grim reminder of her mediocrity, of dreams chased half-heartedly and abandoned.
She would never steal the hearts of adoring crowds, taking them to fantastical far-flung places with every draw of a well-rosined bow, capturing adoration and spreading the joy she had felt as a child listening to the bards at the Aywick Show every year.
No, she was to marry Clive Bervie.
A good man. An honest man. A man with cattle.
That's what everybody said, at least, pointedly ignoring his aversion to bathing, chronic underbite and one leg that was shorter than the other. It was how these rural affairs went. If there was somebody in your village or the next one over who happened to be a suitable age, it was destined to be a match. Looks didn't matter, nor did personality. It was practical and good for the land. Ceria recalled, quite vividly, the moment that her mother remarked, 'Well, at least he's not a cousin!' Looking at Clive, it seemed his family tree, or ladder had seen plenty of cousins.
Upon opening up the case and getting lost in the varnished wood of her violin the woman had made a decision.
This would not be her life.
She could have taken her dowry and fled, but where to and with what skills? No, the passing flight of fantasy had led her elsewhere, down rabbit holes of folk tales and fair folk. Nothing else could grant her what she wanted, and Ceria knew exactly what she wanted.
Standing at the edge of their grounds marked by the boulder, the crofter stared at the dowry box, its contents modest. There was coin, of course, a handful of gold pieces flanked by silver to secure the union, a sentimental sapphire necklace that was never worn for fear that it may be tarnished and strangely enough, a pair of hand-knitted socks. Her eyes flitted upwards; the dusk's clouds were tinged by vibrant pinks and oranges, a sign of good omens or, at the very least, good superstition.
Red sky at night, shepherd's delight.
Ceria closed her eyes and hoped that her offering would be accepted.
It was a well-worn box; its edges chipped, and the once intricate detail of painted flowering vines faded by both time and the sun. How many generations had it seen? How many times had this box marked the beginning of another family? How many hands of tradition had passed it down the line? What would those hands think now?
Ceria Ythan did not know, nor did she care.
She recalled the moment that she had stopped caring.
The woman had found herself on the floor of her room, squinting into the darkness beneath her bed in search of a rogue sock that had evaded the wash. However, instead of finding the lost garment, she came face-to-face with an old blessing and bitter burden left there to rot. A neglected fiddle case, practically encrusted with dust. How long had it been? Two years? Five? Ten, perhaps? The very sight of it was a grim reminder of her mediocrity, of dreams chased half-heartedly and abandoned.
She would never steal the hearts of adoring crowds, taking them to fantastical far-flung places with every draw of a well-rosined bow, capturing adoration and spreading the joy she had felt as a child listening to the bards at the Aywick Show every year.
No, she was to marry Clive Bervie.
A good man. An honest man. A man with cattle.
That's what everybody said, at least, pointedly ignoring his aversion to bathing, chronic underbite and one leg that was shorter than the other. It was how these rural affairs went. If there was somebody in your village or the next one over who happened to be a suitable age, it was destined to be a match. Looks didn't matter, nor did personality. It was practical and good for the land. Ceria recalled, quite vividly, the moment that her mother remarked, 'Well, at least he's not a cousin!' Looking at Clive, it seemed his family tree, or ladder had seen plenty of cousins.
Upon opening up the case and getting lost in the varnished wood of her violin the woman had made a decision.
This would not be her life.
She could have taken her dowry and fled, but where to and with what skills? No, the passing flight of fantasy had led her elsewhere, down rabbit holes of folk tales and fair folk. Nothing else could grant her what she wanted, and Ceria knew exactly what she wanted.
Standing at the edge of their grounds marked by the boulder, the crofter stared at the dowry box, its contents modest. There was coin, of course, a handful of gold pieces flanked by silver to secure the union, a sentimental sapphire necklace that was never worn for fear that it may be tarnished and strangely enough, a pair of hand-knitted socks. Her eyes flitted upwards; the dusk's clouds were tinged by vibrant pinks and oranges, a sign of good omens or, at the very least, good superstition.
Red sky at night, shepherd's delight.
Ceria closed her eyes and hoped that her offering would be accepted.
