The Blood that Binds (storyline)/An Unusual Prose (vignette)
The Blood that Binds, Chapter 2 Vignette: An Unusual Prose
The door shut quietly behind her in an attempt to mute the sounds of conversation and drinking that was going on near the bonfire just outside of her wagon. The strangers that arrived had made themselves right at home with she and Henna, bringing some rather good refreshments to share. As a rule, Prose never turned down good drinks and conversation, so it was a nice distraction after making camp. The others of her group were already turned in for the evening when the visitors arrived, but she would be sure to tell them at the morning bonfire about the night’s events.
Per usual, the visitors had come seeking "special items" that someone had told them about. Rumors forever followed the wanderers, varying in the tallness of the tale and the details of the special items being sought after. Prose had dealt with this all of her life, and she didn’t mind it most of the time. Her name, which is normally associated with communication in a style that does not follow a structure of rhyming or meter, was gifted to her by her grandmother when Prose was a small babe. Her mother and grandmother knew, even at Prose’s young age, that she was different and could communicate with people in a way that most could not. Prose’s gifts expanded as she aged to include mental communication, divination, and a unique way to heal others that could not be found in the herbs and tinctures normally utilized for such a task. As a result, the request for special items had dogged her every step. Long ago she had stopped requesting silvers for her gifts, and instead preferred to deal in favors for those she found useful and unique. Such was the case with the young Giantman that she’d helped this evening, who introduced himself to her as Oro. He appeared to be a trader or merchant of sorts, and that was always good to have in one’s back pocket in the future for a favor. Healing his leg had taken a bit out of her, but it was nothing she could not replenish with a few evenings of good sleep.
Prose disrobed and climbed into a makeshift bed of a pile of blankets next to a young, sleeping child. Gently, she touched the child's hair and brushed it away from her forehead, then softly pressed her lips to the exposed skin as a goodnight gesture. The girl stirred subtly but did not wake and seemed to settle in further against Prose’s form in a familiar response. Wrapping one arm around the child’s waist, Prose also settled in and closed her eyes. “Tomorrow, they will see you my daughter, and will know great terror in your gifts. I hope that they will heed your warning and not be consumed by fear of the unknown when they become aware of you.” As she murmured this aloud, she turned slightly and tightened her grip over the young child’s sleeping form, as if protecting her from something or someone. Leaning in close, she whispered in the girl’s ear, “But if they do come for you with their pitchforks and hate, I will protect you as I have for all of your life. I will always be your eyes, my love.” A quiet incantation escaped Prose’s lips and the interior of the wagon shimmered with silvery light for a moment, before she slipped into slumber.