Velgarth and it's denizens belong to the talented Mercedes Lackey. Not me. I'm not making money off this (or anything else, unfortunately) and don't plan to. The three characters within belong to me.
Cold... so cold.
She stumbles home, gaunt shoulders hunched under worn cloth, its color faded to a nondescript blue-gray. The streets are deserted, save for the human debris huddled in odd forgotten corners. It hadn't been like this a few years ago. A few years ago the mages had kept the city buildings warm, had charmed the cloth of your clothing for a small price. Now the mages were dead though. Perhaps the capitol would be warmer. She had thought about moving, but the news was mixed and unreliable. First whispers that the capitol was destroyed, then someone said it hadn't changed. She didn't believe that though. Everything had changed, why not the capitol too.
Rounding a windswept corner she pulls the tattered shirt tighter about her in a futile attempt to ward off the winter wind. Why hadn't she ever had heavier clothing made? She never expected the magic to fail, but that heavy stuff – what was it called? Mertak, that was it. It had been in style a few years ago, she could have afforded it...
She breaks off that train of thought, shaking her head in bitter amusement. As stingy as she had been, hoping to own her own shop sometime, her actually spend money on fashion? The very idea is laughable.
Cold. Too cold to laugh.
It doesn't help her now though. Now money is useless, the only currency is food or items with their half-destroyed magics still partially functional. From the glory that the Empire had been, how She has fallen.
Arriving at an ornate door she fumbles a key from the waistband of her mud colored skirt. The lock sticks, but she only jostles the key in the lock, used to its tricks. Opening the door as little and for as small a time as possible she slips into the gloomy interior of the once comfortable house, shivering only slightly less inside than she had out. Despite her care with the door a draft scuttles around the walls of the near-empty room, eliciting a thin wail from the only lit corner.
An old woman looks up from tending the fire burning on the bare flagstone floor, wrapped in what used to be a tapestry. Her eyes show disapproval at the late hour, but she says nothing, looking to the babe in her arms instead. The younger woman, her daughter, sits as close to the flames as she dares, shivering. After a long while – too long – she stops shivering long enough to reach into the multiple folds of her mantle, withdrawing a flat loaf of unleavened bread and a small fish wrapped in leaves. She hands them to the old woman with hands chapped raw from the cold and hard labor.
The other woman takes the offered food, old eyes longing for bygone days when such fare was too rough for even the servants. She drops the frozen fish into the small pot of water next to the fire then sits back without a word. Time passes, the younger woman eventually stops shivering.
No words are spoken. None need be, for nothing has changed and complaining will only serve to make their hearts more bitter. The young woman takes the bread from where it sits, warmed by the fire, and breaks it into pieces, two small ones and one even smaller. She takes the smallest and places it in a dish, then strains the fish out of the boiling water and divides it evenly between the two other bits of bread. She pours part of the remaining water into the bowl with the other bread, then lets it sit and cool slowly. The two women slowly eat their bread and fish, trying not to remember.
After the meal is done the young woman again picks up the bowl, mashing the now soft bread and fish broth into a thin paste with a tiny spoon. She picks up the baby, muttering soft nonsense, and carefully spoons the mash into the child's tiny mouth. The babe is listless, though he no longer fusses at the poor fare. She worries for him.
The old woman slowly gets up from the fire, moving stones from where the sit in the warmth to the pile of old tapestries and clothing that serve as a bed. She climbs in slowly, joints aching in the cold. Soon the young woman joins her; both huddle close for shared warmth, the babe in between.
Cold...
I'm going to do something different with this bit. Take the characters if you want, name them, tell me what happened. If you had a story-bit drifting around in your head due to this, feel free. Just leave me a link to the bit and give me credit for my characters.