A/N: This is my first fanfiction so take that into consideration. :D
Update 11/30/07: Made some minor wording edits. :)
Swamped
Piper blinked away the film of sleep. Sounds of merry fair preparations were drifting through the open window and she pressed her face into her pillow, cursing herself for not having the foresight to lash it shut the night before. The only morning worth anything was one of bright, radiant sunshine, not the blue-gray of twilight.
Someone was singing. A gentle baritone hailed the Morninglord over the ruckus of livestock, chatter, and the hollow knocking of tent poles. Piper managed to shuffle groggily over to her window. Wiping away her mussed hair and leaning over the sill, she recognized Brother Merring across the stream in his robes of gold and burnt crimson. He, along with Georg and a good number of the militiamen, were assembling the various tents and erecting the challenge fences. She thought she could spot Bevil among them.
Waking with the roosters for everyone else's sake, bless them. She yawned, shivering at the slight breath of wind that played around her bare collar bone.
"If you insist on leaning in such a way, child, then see to it that you are well-covered." Piper straightened her back and fetched her woolen shawl from the dresser top, wrapping it about herself.
"Well, good morning, Father." She smiled down on Daeghun. He nodded and began scouring the empty water trough below. "Will you be staying for the Fair today?"
Daeghun didn't look up from his work, but there was the barest of pauses. "Of course. Galen wants my furs as usual." Then he leveled a glance at her. "The peat logs are running thin, and Glorwen has yet to be fed or watered." He continued scrubbing. "But I'm sure you remembered."
"You needn't remind me." She chirped and closed the window, drawing the curtains of her windows.
Piper sighed to herself. Five days gone and all he afforded her in his return was a stiff reprimand in posture and responsibility. She shrugged the twinge of disappointment out of her shoulders.
The elf is an island unto himself.
She slipped out of her chemise and donned a dark beige tunic and a pair of earthen breeches. By the time she strapped the many belts and straps on her worn leathers, and stepped into her mud boots, the sun's crown had finally peaked over the horizon.
She brushed her hair and wrapped a string of twine around it in a messy knot. It was going to be a very warm day. A very active day. And it just reeked of injustice if a few stray hairs blocked her view of a defeated Mossfeld. Save perhaps Webb. Over the past few years, the youngest Mossfeld had taken an almost pleasant turn towards her, much to Amie and Bevil's amusement. He just followed his brothers out of the boredom only Harbormen suffered from.
Piper ushered about the house for a good while with her parchment-book and quill, taking stock of all food stuffs, clothing, and weapon miscellaneous; anything that Galen could replenish, repair, or purchase. She tsked at all the clutter that had built up over the last year, then muttered to herself bemusedly when she realized most, if not all of it, was hers. Harbormen also suffered from a notorious packrat syndrome, it seemed...or maybe that was just Piper.
She packed all of it in a number of oilskin packs from Daeghun's supply closet, and began loading them on the mulecart in the front yard. She had been correct. By now, it couldn't be later than nine in the morning, and yet already Piper's brow felt moist. She heard a clinking from the back of the house; most likely Daeghun tampering with the water pump. It had acted fickle for the past few weeks.
Piper crossed the lawn, eying the onion field with contempt. Her back still ached from last evening, when Daeghun had returned from his fur-gathering and then suggested they weed through the plants and discard all the lost causes. She figured only a third of them had survived the rotten season, and she doubted the peas would fare any better the coming winter.
And the terrible yield didn't amount to equally terrible weather, no, and West Harbor never wanted for water or rich soil; it possessed both by the plenty. Piper squished her boot into the peat moss, confirming the fact. No, something odd was going on here, she knew. But guesses in the village remained few and solutions nonexistent.
An impatient snort came from the stable.
Piper grinned, giving a shout. "Yes, yes, I know." She fetched the bridle and a bucket of sweet feed that she had mixed the day before last, un-notching the door. She tried to slip the bridle over the mule's ears, but the animal jerked her head backwards. Piper laughed. "No need to worry, Wen. No bit in this one." She dangled it in front of the mule's muzzle so she could take a few wary nibbles at it, then she huffed through her nose, satisfied. "See? Nothing to fuss over." Piper soothed as she fastened the straps about Wen's face.
She guided her from the stable, and Wen immediately ducked her head into the sweet feed, chomping and gnashing. Piper brushed her golden coat as she fed, noticing the thinning of the hair around her rump and neck.
"Just how old are you I wonder, girl?" Glorwen had occupied the stable, grazed on the grass, and drank from the stream for as long as Piper could remember. And from how hesitant Daeghun was to make contact with the animal, she assumed that the mule had belonged to his late wife. Piper ran the stiff bristles through Wen's flaxen mane while she cleaned her teeth with her wide tongue.
"So lady-like." Piper teased. Wen huffed through her nose again, but followed when she led her to the refilled water trough. She could drink her fill while Piper harvested the peat logs.
West Harbor basically rested in a giant depression of peat moss and so, unlike many of the large cities, peat fires took predominance to those made from old-fashioned wood. Piper couldn't recall ever seeing anyone chop down a tree for firewood in her entire twenty-four years. Daeghun always became stony and rigid at the very idea of it, almost echoing the attitudes of the few druids she had met; very strange behavior for a ranger, for a wood elf who lived off the natural world. But then, his behavior was strange by many standards.
Piper shook her head, conjuring up a light-some melody as she shoveled peat into block molders that were spread back-to-back over the wooden picnic table. Perhaps it was the excitement of the day, or the heat, but a fresh tune eluded her.
Not one for dissuasion, she shrugged, and ran the words of Milil's creed through her mind instead. It always fought off the monotony brought on by farm work.
Life is a song: Strive always to make it more beautiful. Destroy no music nor instrument, nor stop a singer before the tune is done. Listen to the world around as well as filling it with your own sound. One singer's music is another's noise, and musicianship always. Sing to Milil everyday. Music is the most precious thing folks can create—so encourage its training, use, and preservation at all times and in all possible ways. Awaken a love of song in all folks you can, and offer its performance freely around campfire or on the trail. Cease not in your own seeking for new tunes, new techniques, and new instruments to master.
Piper mulled over the words, again and again, until every mold set was filled with peat. As contained as it was, it still made for a squishy mess. A beaming sun in the thick of a warm autumn…and the sod was holding more water than a dwarven woman with child.
She snickered to herself, when suddenly a slippery, wet something licked her hand and she nearly fell over in the attempt to grab Daeghun's skinning knife from the table.
She whirled around, only to find a coyote gazing rigidly at her. Piper stabbed the picnic table in relieved agitation.
"Gods, Rana! Don't do that!" She frowned at him, but he only twitched his nose in her general direction, brown lupine eyes staring. He lowered his head and tail, lolling his tongue out slightly. Piper eased forward and patted him between his tawny ears. His eyes drifted closed. Then, without a yip or yap or whatever sound it was coyotes made, he padded off into the surrounding brush, probably to find a meal or sleeping burrow between the trees.
Once Piper finally regained the ability to smile, she swiped a few ginger hairs out of her face; Rana had never approached her so openly before. Usually, he skirted the trees and shrubbery, sticking his head out for a canine acknowledgment or two before disappearing for several days. Just like Daeghun. She still marveled that he and the coyote shared the companion bond, what with their loner ways and stoic mannerisms.
Glorwen brayed near her ear; she had taken it upon herself to canter over from the trough.
"Well, Wen? What do you say to a little trot over to the Fairway, hmm?" The mule tossed her head. Piper fastened her harness to the cart poles. "You just wait there and enjoy the scenery for a bit."
She entered the farmhouse. "Father?"
"Yes?" Daeghun's monotone carried a hint of irritation. Most likely because she had called him loud enough to rouse even his ancestors in Evermeet. He was busy mending wools in front of the sitting room fire.
"Wen is harnessed and the cart loaded. All I need are your furs."
Daeghun nodded, satisfied, hands making deft repairs. "Very good. I took the liberty of wrapping them in a burlap cloth for you to carry. They are atop the foyer chest." Piper backed a couple of steps into the foyer and picked up the twined cloth. The bundle was uncharacteristically thin this year. She could, for the first time in memory, wrap the length of her arms around it without risking injury.
"Galen and I spoke last season, and he agreed to bring a Duskwood bow for trade this year." Piper wondered at this; Daeghun owned a handful of bows already and one full wall of the supply closet was flush with them, hanging on platform hooks. A sign of calculated caution and preparation for…what exactly? Lizardlings? Ham-handed bandits? An invasion of fireflies, perhaps?
"Alright, I'm on my way." She withheld a chuckle, but then paused, an irksome question on the tip of her tongue.
Daeghun stroked his mouth with a forefinger, peering up at her with keen green eyes, waiting with inhuman patience.
Piper sighed. "Sorry to pick at you but…what is happening to West Harbor? If the rot continues, all the crops will become useless."
"This past season has been a hard one—for both tilled fields and wildlands. But there are always creatures of the Mere that we may use for food, if the situation proves dire." He said, calm and measured.
"Yes, but whatever is affecting the crops is also affecting the wilds." She gripped the bundle tighter, frowning in thought. "The nightbirds are quiet as of late, and I can't remember the last time I saw a rabbit in the thickets or a flock of geese flying overhead...if the crops and animals die, what then? I hardly think any large city or village would even marshal aide to us."
Daeghun had steeped his fingers, and now considered her with some impatience. "You seek comfort and answers that I cannot give. Besides, you leave within a tenday. The troubles of the Mere need not trouble you for much longer."
She had half a mind to be touched by the slight bitterness in his tone.
Piper smiled, though it felt stiff and hard on her face. "I'm sorry. I really shouldn't fuss on a Fair day. The sun rides high and bright, and here I am speaking of rot of all things. I'll leave you then." And so she turned on her heel and marched out the door, across the lawn, plopping the furs on the cart a little harder than she had intended. Glorwen snorted. Piper coiled the bridle's reins about her right hand, clucking her tongue to coax Wen into movement.
As always, you waste your breath, bard.
