The following is an account of my character's youth, in flashes of memories, letters, diary entries, and otherwise! I'll ( hopefully ) be posting every so often, as I use this as a writing exercise and a way of fleshing out details ( inconsequential or otherwise ).
The girl came to her senses all at once - a familiar pain traced its way from her hip to her shoulder blade. The rough wood floor she and her father slept on tended to be uncomfortable, if her aching neck was any indication of that. The pale light of the sun filtered through the window - it was still early. If she hurried, there would be time to go through the letters before she had to begin work for the day. She could hardly contain her excitement, scrambling out of the threadbare blanket to dive for the loose plank across the room. Feeble, slender fingers scratched at the edges of it, lifting the lid of the nook to delve through the diary left by her mother.
Amongst the many accounts left, there were a few written copies of classical Altalar poems and fables - tales of enlightened mages, noble heroes, gods and deities who would reward their champions. There's a lesson to be learned here, her father's voice chided sternly, in these fables your mother loved so much. She pushed them to the side for the time being. There would be no shortage of opportunities to read through them later. The girl picked a random page in the leather-bound book, hoping for some insight.
{ July 17th, 229 AC. My dearest future child - your father and I could not be more excited for your birth. Just today he proposed your name. Selethil. A noble name for a beautiful baby boy. It means "gilded breeze". Admittedly, the two of us are not yet in a position to have a child and to provide for one - but! I've always been a forward thinker. These entries will be a delight to read through when your father and I are grey with age. Regardless, I ho- }
A crunch of footsteps pulled the girl's attention away from the carefully crafted note, as she scrambled to shove the treasure into its trove. A cold shock traveled up the length of her spine as she slotted the plank back into its position, every hair on the back of her exposed neck standing on end. The footsteps quickened, nearly dull stomps on the planks as the newcomer - her father, as it always was - approached. There was a sharp pain as her braids were seized, tugging the girl onto her feet.
"What are you doing there?! Touching my things again?" he hissed sharply.
"I - uh. I didn't mean anything, papa! I, was just, juh. Just looking for -" she began, the words dying on the tip of her tongue. The excuse choked itself in her throat, as her hands grasped feebly for her braids, hoping to relieve some of the pain the pulling was causing her scalp. Her hair was released, and the girl was administered a harsh slap that sent her reeling. The look of disappointment in her father's face stung worse than any pain - he merely glowered at her, before removing the plank to reorganize what the girl had hastily put away.
It was always like this. The frustration welled in her eyes, a sob building at the back of her throat. Making excuses only made the situation worse, she knew, but what else could she have done? Isla allowed herself to cry.
Her father would apologize for his harshness, he always did. Perhaps, little Isla, you can write something for your mother instead. I'll allow you to go through these things when you're older, he had assured her. It seemed like a good idea. He had promised her that the diary would be hers if she worked hard enough - and that was all the motivation the girl had needed. From that day on, she would fill out her own diary.
Amongst the many accounts left, there were a few written copies of classical Altalar poems and fables - tales of enlightened mages, noble heroes, gods and deities who would reward their champions. There's a lesson to be learned here, her father's voice chided sternly, in these fables your mother loved so much. She pushed them to the side for the time being. There would be no shortage of opportunities to read through them later. The girl picked a random page in the leather-bound book, hoping for some insight.
{ July 17th, 229 AC. My dearest future child - your father and I could not be more excited for your birth. Just today he proposed your name. Selethil. A noble name for a beautiful baby boy. It means "gilded breeze". Admittedly, the two of us are not yet in a position to have a child and to provide for one - but! I've always been a forward thinker. These entries will be a delight to read through when your father and I are grey with age. Regardless, I ho- }
A crunch of footsteps pulled the girl's attention away from the carefully crafted note, as she scrambled to shove the treasure into its trove. A cold shock traveled up the length of her spine as she slotted the plank back into its position, every hair on the back of her exposed neck standing on end. The footsteps quickened, nearly dull stomps on the planks as the newcomer - her father, as it always was - approached. There was a sharp pain as her braids were seized, tugging the girl onto her feet.
"What are you doing there?! Touching my things again?" he hissed sharply.
"I - uh. I didn't mean anything, papa! I, was just, juh. Just looking for -" she began, the words dying on the tip of her tongue. The excuse choked itself in her throat, as her hands grasped feebly for her braids, hoping to relieve some of the pain the pulling was causing her scalp. Her hair was released, and the girl was administered a harsh slap that sent her reeling. The look of disappointment in her father's face stung worse than any pain - he merely glowered at her, before removing the plank to reorganize what the girl had hastily put away.
It was always like this. The frustration welled in her eyes, a sob building at the back of her throat. Making excuses only made the situation worse, she knew, but what else could she have done? Isla allowed herself to cry.
Her father would apologize for his harshness, he always did. Perhaps, little Isla, you can write something for your mother instead. I'll allow you to go through these things when you're older, he had assured her. It seemed like a good idea. He had promised her that the diary would be hers if she worked hard enough - and that was all the motivation the girl had needed. From that day on, she would fill out her own diary.
