Feb 2, 2021
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a grimace, a smile: it’s all teeth
part one of the Isra Chronicle (in an fetl au environment (?) i guess (?)) bc jay encouraged me to do the thing. it’ll be.... updated probably tmrw... titles??? what are those
lineage, a worth
on the opposite side of the fire, fadia smiles wide-- a flash of white in the dark, and nimat looks up from her bow, eyebrow raised. "what is it, child," she says around a mouth of smoke.
"just thinkin'," the girl says in her lazy, country way, "your name-- it, uh, means blessing, right?"
that earns a scoff, a nonchalant twist of the hand in the night air, "or so my grandmother told me, yes." a pause, lips pressing together for a moment, before tentatively: "why?"
idly, fadia sticks a piece of wheat-grass between the gap in her front teeth (grimoire hiram, nonplussed at her behavior at this point, only gives a heaving sigh in protest) and takes a few minutes-- to mull? to cobble together some half-answer? nimat's mouth twists impatiently; her braids swing dangerously close to the flames as she leans forward, hand on her knee-- "well, child? don't say curiosity, either. you know what curiosity does to cats and little girls, yes?"
for effect, she plucks back her bowstring, but fadia just grins in that lopsided and careless way all twelve year olds from the village to the seafront to the aerie seemed to do, "nah," fadia says, picking at a stray thread on the edge of her tunic, "just thinkin' your grandma's right. s'a blessing to have you with us. wouldn'tve made it without you, nimat."
all of nimat's acid turns to ashes-- from her mind, to her mouth; she blinks, once or twice, "oh," she says, clumsily, "think nothing of it-- we are friends now, after all."
the child says nothing back, but smiles wide enough for the piece of grass to flutter back down into her lap-- and for once, nimat smiles back.
hiram makes a sound (amusement? bemusement? disapproval? one of these days, nimat'll burn that book to ash.) in an attempt to have the last word-- and the grimoire succeeds. not another word is spoken that night.
(unmarked grave)
aynur rends the world apart with a smile, winning and bright— but once a liar, always a liar, and she dies with one stuck in her throat like the arrow that should have always been there.
heirlooms
fadia wears her grandfather's necklace under her shirt and keeps her mother's dagger in her boot; she brings home hearty venison and wild vegetables, and prays to mother earth and father sky, but her papa's cough worsens with every passing day. last autumn, jaleh left her a bow made of dyed yew and a quiver full of heron-fletched arrows, and said with heavy eyes that it would be another year before they could come back. fadia didn't understand then, but she understands now-- it's been two years since jaleh and sahar left the small congregation in the plains to find work, and it will be three when the leaves begin to turn again. (she doesn't stop to think about what that means, what it might mean. jaleh wouldn't miss her birthday three years in a row. her papa would live to see her carve a necklace for someone she loves, and her mother rests peacefully within mother earth's embrace as the hardy patch of violets bloom.) (everything will turn out alright in the end. the world is built on that. this is what fadia tells herself as she stokes the fire and reads her father stories until he slips into the peaceful sleep she's not afforded any longer.)
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Choose Your Origin: Human Noble
For generations your family, the Couslands, has stewarded the lands of Highever. Today your brother takes up House Cousland's banner against bestial darkspawn rising in the south.
Choose Your Origin: Dwarven Commoner
Deep beneath the Frostback mountains sits Orzammar, largest and proudest of the two remaining dwarven cities. Below the vast statues and gilded halls where the noble families play at politics, the lower castes live in their shadows, scurrying to serve like their ancestors before them. Below that is you, forced along with you sister to sell your services to the crime lord, Beraht.