Raindrops and Fleas
Location: An inn somewhere in Cymeria
Timeline: September 3550
Rain drummed on the flimsy roof of the stables, soaking into the straw, little droplets scurrying down the pillars that upheld the structure. Perhaps she should have slept outside, but a little shelter was better than none, even if the heavy, earthy smell of horses permeated everything. She was certain she could hear the rustling of fleas in the hay, and self-consciously drew her fingers through what strands of blue-black hair had loosened from their bindings. She was sat with her back against a pillar, legs bent at the knee, her cittern cradled in her lap.
She reluctantly returned it to its oiled, leather case, where it was surely safer from the elements. She drew her own cowl about her head, which was already suffering damp from the relentless downpour. She wondered if she might have some sway, but surely, that would be challenging the very nature of the skies itself. That aside, she had no ability to shape her power for herself, and the very thought unnerved her. She did not like to think she was frightened of much, but among some of those things was herself, her heritage.
She should have asked for a better room, but the inn was packed to the rafters. There was no song that would have moved the man to offer her a kinder space, no heart-wrenching tale. She was too proud to shed tears in favour of bettering her standing. Beyond that, there were patrons with more in the way of coin and silver tongues who had already claimed those chambers. So, she would have to be content with what she had been given, and her people had always been taught to accept their lot in life with graciousness.
She sighed, and leaned back against the pillar. At first light, she would be moving onward, preferably to somewhere with less fleas.