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08-15-2014, 05:57 PM
 midas When you walk away, you don't hear me
Sweat of labor is still slick upon painted spine when dainty company arrives, a filly of a woman flitting in through the undergrowth, her soft eyes falling to me in obvious recognition then landing upon the cells with an almost childlike fascination. I resign to say nothing at first, remembering her as Drom and waiting to see if this woman child was actually going to stick around long enough for conversation. She chooses to approach seconds later, a polite greeting upon lips. Ebony crown turns at an angle to regard her with a tired little smile, “To ye as well.” The heavy iron door was still closed, yet Drom appeared to be inspecting the work that our masons had done to the outside walls and was admiring my fresh handwork on those bars. She asked a question about the treatment of prisoners, I smiled a little wider, “Yar, the Tiro on guard will ensure that those held here are taken care of.” This cell wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution, nor a place of torment. She then pressed for permission to enter, I shrugged indifferently – turning gaze to concentrate on the iron bars so that they might unlatch and swing open. There was only room for one individual to stand within the cavern, so I wait outside the door, granting her ample space to explore as much or as little as she chose. Her curiosity is something of an unusual occurrence; typically people didn’t care to investigate the crude projects of war, certainly not young mares, “Does ye have a desire to craft?” |
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